


The World Is Round And The Sky Is Infinite

by Still_beating_heart



Category: Stranger Things (TV 2016)
Genre: Abusive Neil Hargrove, And I suppose it's, Argh tags, Billy Hargrove Lives, But since Billy lives there are scars and trauma and nightmares, Canon Triggers Apply, Eventual Romance, I suck at tags, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Implied/Referenced Homophobia, In a different way than Neil though, It's Neil, M/M, Mostly like a we have too much money to love our kid kind of way, Neil Hargrove is His Own Warning, Period Typical Attitudes, Post-Season/Series 03, Road Trips, Self-Mutilation, Sexual Content, Steve Harrington has mostly absent parents and they are not great when they are around, The Camaro lives too, Violence is not really graphically depicted but it's there, canon warnings apply, eventually, implied racism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-24
Updated: 2020-08-30
Packaged: 2021-03-01 20:34:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 30
Words: 59,433
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23823163
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Still_beating_heart/pseuds/Still_beating_heart
Summary: Canon warnings apply/Read tags/Read chapter warnings please——————They say the world is round and the sky is infinite. But all Billy sees is row after row of corn.Sometimes he gets on the interstate and drives. Dropping gears. Listening to the soothing purr and grumble of her engine. Letting her fly.Wondering how far he could get in one afternoon. How far he could get before anyone would notice. Notice he was gone. Before anyone would care.He stops at the state line. Pulls into the wayside and lights a smoke. Watches the sun go down. Disappearing over the rows of corn.He likes to raise his shadowed hand then. Pinch the sun as it sags on the horizon. Remember how it used to look in California. How it looked pinched between his mother’s long fingers. How it looked glistening on the drops of ocean water drying slowly on her fingers. How it looked dripping off her wedding ring.——————Billy survived Starcourt, now if Billy and Steve can survive a road trip across the States together with a little surprise from The Upside Down and some ghosts of Billy's past coming to light, it'll be a miracle.  Oh, and try not to fall in love along the way boys...
Relationships: Billy Hargrove & Steve Harrington, Billy Hargrove/Steve Harrington
Comments: 134
Kudos: 117





	1. The World Is Round And The Sky Is Infinite

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Billy

The World Is Round And The Sky Is Infinite 

They say the world is round and the sky is infinite. But all Billy sees is row after row of corn. 

Sometimes he gets on the interstate and drives. Dropping gears. Listening to the soothing purr and grumble of her engine. Letting her fly.

Wondering how far he could get in one afternoon. How far he could get before anyone would notice. Notice he was gone. Before anyone would care.

He stops at the state line. Pulls into the wayside and lights a smoke. Watches the sun go down. Disappearing over the rows of corn. 

He likes to raise his shadowed hand then. Pinch the sun as it sags on the horizon. Remember how it used to look in California. How it looked pinched between his mother’s long fingers. How it looked glistening on the drops of ocean water drying slowly on her fingers. How it looked dripping off her wedding ring. 

Sometimes he likes to drive. With the windows down and the music cranked up. Sometimes he likes to swerve towards oncoming traffic. Sometimes he likes to picture how he’d look bloodied and broken, entombed in crushed metal and broken glass. A coffin of American  
made steel. A path to his grave laid in black rubber on blacktop.

——————

There are faces he recognizes. Sounds. Voices he knows. And ones he doesn’t.

There are hands on his body. Caring. Gentle. Sometimes he recognizes them. Sometimes he doesn’t.

——————

Billy likes to drink until the world is a blur. Until his stomach is swimming and his head is drowning. He likes to park in an empty field where the corn has been harvested and laid down for the winter. He likes to see how many ruts he can leave in the broken earth.

He likes to lay on the hood of her. And watch the stars. Blinking bright and insistent. 

He likes when his head is drowning. It feels more like home. More like the rolling of waves and the song of the gulls. It sounds more like the laughter of his mother being pushed to shore too quickly on the crest of a wave. 

——————

There are faces he recognizes. Sounds. Voices he knows. And ones he doesn’t.

There are hands on his body. Caring. Gentle. Sometimes he recognizes them. Sometimes he doesn’t.

——————

Billy likes to peel off the layers of clothing. Tight denim. Cotton. Leather. 

Remove the jewelry. Fake gold. Cheap alloys that mark him in green.

And lay in the dying Autumn grass. Let the nip of the cooling air breathe down his neck. Tickle his toes. Harden his nipples. 

Billy likes to lay with the cold mud on his back. The sharp spikes of flattened corn pricking his flesh. 

He lights a cig. Watches the way it flares orange against the backlighting of the sky at night. 

They say the sky is infinite. Billy thinks it ends here. 

Billy thinks it ended the first time he felt the lick of his dad’s belt on his bare bottom.

——————

There are faces he recognizes. Sounds. Voices he knows. And ones he doesn’t.

There are hands on his body. Caring. Gentle. Sometimes he recognizes them. Sometimes he doesn’t.

——————

Billy likes to dig his toes in. Be certain that beneath him is mud. Instead of sand. 

He likes to push his fingers into the dirt. Close his eyes. And pretend it’s sand. 

Listen to the crickets and an owl in the distance.

And pretend it’s his mother’s voice. And the waves on the beach. 

He likes to drink until he’s sick. And remember that time he was held under the waves for so long he thought his eardrums would explode. 

He likes to remember that place between here and there. Between real and fake. Between life and death. 

He likes to bite his cheek until it bleeds. Taste the metal and feel the stickiness of life in every death. 

He likes to put his cigarette out on his bare thigh. Bite at the pain that threatens to exit in a scream. Grit his teeth to the world. 

Billy likes to remember what it means to be alive. 

Billy likes to burn the edges. And taste the blood.

——————

There are faces he recognizes. Sounds. Voices he knows. And ones he doesn’t.

There are hands on his body. Caring. Gentle. Sometimes he recognizes them. Sometimes he doesn’t.

——————

Billy likes to fuck girls. He likes to fuck them with his hand over their mouth. He likes to fuck them from behind. With his fingers curled into their hair.

He likes to fuck them until he can’t remember what it was like. What it was like to have his gentle hands on his thighs. And his sweet kiss against his lips. 

——————

There are faces he recognizes. Sounds. Voices he knows. And ones he doesn’t.

There are hands on his body. Caring. Gentle. Sometimes he recognizes them. Sometimes he doesn’t.

“I’m sorry Billy,” Max tells him one day. Sitting beside him. She’s a white shadow, a halo of light, “I know it wasn’t your fault.”

——————

Billy likes to bruise his knuckles. He likes to feel the pain, raw and wounded, bleeding from his fists into his soul.

Billy likes to split his knuckles. Like overripe fruit on bones. 

Billy likes to make everyone else remember what it feels like to live. 

He likes to lie in his bed afterward. And catalogue every ache and pain. Every bruise and cut. Every broken rib like razor wire under his flesh. 

He likes to burn it into his memory. Every expression on his father’s face with every contact. Every fist into flesh and every word that dripped out of his mouth. 

He likes to remember it. So he never forgets what it means to live. 

——————

There are faces he recognizes. Sounds. Voices he knows. And ones he doesn’t.

There are hands on his body. Caring. Gentle. Sometimes he recognizes them. Sometimes he doesn’t.

“What are we supposed to do with him now? We can’t afford anymore medical care.”

The rest can be left unsaid. The rest. How they don’t want to. How they don’t want him home. They don’t want him there. They never did.

——————

Billy likes to lay underneath him. Likes to press his fingertips into the dark, delicate flesh where it dimples at the small of his back. He likes to bury his face in his neck. Chase his tongue over his collarbone.

Billy likes to feel him moving inside him. While his hands slip through his hair. He likes to watch his eyes like honey drizzled over chocolate. While he smiles over him. 

He likes to feel the sand at his back. As he thrusts into him with a slow, sweet grind of his hips. 

He likes to watch how his hair absorbs the moon’s silvery light. As the waves roll against the shore. 

——————

There are faces he recognizes. Sounds. Voices he knows. And ones he doesn’t.

There are hands on his body. Caring. Gentle. Sometimes he recognizes them. Sometimes he doesn’t.

“I guess I’m your only option Hargrove. No one else wants you,” his hands are tucking sheets around his armpits. A mumbled, “not that I do either. But I guess I’m not a dick.”

———————

Billy likes to press his fingers into the bruises. He likes to slam his fists against the welts. He likes to know, he likes to remember, he forces himself to never forget. What it was like once. Once to feel love. Once to have it ripped away. Once to have the door fling open and his father’s angry face appear. 

His fists splattered with blood. And his voice rough, demanding and on the verge of lunacy. The sound of it. When he smashed again and again against skull. 

His voice as he threatened. As the hate spewed in every form and echoed off every wall of Billy’s bedroom. It threaded through his ears and wound tightly around every lobe of his brain. It cemented itself in his stomach. And hardened off his heart. 

———————

Steve’s voice is a quiet drone. It sounds like he’s trying to read. Halting and slow.

Billy must make some kind of noise, because Steve stops suddenly, admits, “I know. I’m too stupid, lazy, and unappreciative to succeed in life,” with a sigh. It’s just a regurgitation of something someone told him once, twice, a hundred times. A reminder printed in block ink and put in front of his face every time the opportunity presented itself. A lie that becomes a fact if it’s repeated often enough. 

———————

Billy likes to walk through the corn as it sprouts through the dark Earth. He likes to put his hands out and feel the sharp leaves under his palm. 

He likes to hear the rustle of it around him and pretend it’s the ocean. Pretend he’s floating where the ocean meets the sky. On the hazy line between here and there. Between real and fake. Between life and death.

Billy likes to extinguish the flame of his lighter with his bare fingers. 

———————

“Hey, look at that, you moved your toes,” Steve’s face is hovering over his. Invading his personal space. As much as giving him sponge baths is an invasion of personal space, it’s this that feels intimate. This, where he’s so close Billy can see the lines on his face. He can see the stubble on his cheeks. He can see the way his eyes crinkle at the corners when he smiles. 

———————

Billy likes to drive too fast. Drink too much. Fuck girls that will never mean anything to him. He likes to light himself on fire and mutilate his own flesh. He likes to live on the cusp of death. 

Billy likes to bare himself to the night sky. And pretend he’s somewhere else.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This could be a thing? Maybe? If anyone's interested. 
> 
> It would include alternating POV, it would get less vague, I'd probably rip off all kinds of bandaids and dig into Billy's childhood and Neil's abuse, it might include a road trip because I could so get on board a road trip to Cali in a muscle car... and eventually some romance. Because, why not?


	2. Mostly Dead Isn't All Dead

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Steve

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I deeply apologize for my Princess Bride and Brain On Drugs references being off by a year. This would be the Spring/Summer of '86 and those things didn't come out until '87. I'll do better, I promise :)

Mostly Dead Isn’t All Dead

Steve’s not really sure how he got here. Standing on the edge of a place where the Earth has been ripped out like a giant one day got hungry and decided that taking a bite out of South Dakota was just the thing his stomach was yearning for. 

Well, he does know how he got here. In a car. In Billy’s car. He’s just not sure how or why he agreed to it. Maybe it was the way Billy’s eyes flickered when he said he felt like he was dying there. Back in Indiana. Like he was stuck in a muck hole that he’d never be able to get out of if he didn’t leave, if he didn’t pack up and leave. Problem was, he wasn’t exactly in driving himself anywhere alone shape. 

Steve sighs, watching as Billy makes his way out on the rocks, careful and slow in ways that a teenage boy should never have to be. In a way he never thought someone like Billy, Billy who seemed so unbreakable, would ever have to move. 

South Dakota. Windswept prairies and a sky that goes on forever until it dives into the Badlands where the jagged Earth under the crust is exposed. All vicious and wicked looking. Relics like Buffalo grazing in an open field beyond the mountains.

Steve leans back against the Camaro, drags the toe of his shoe through the dirt and listens to a mother chastising her child for walking through the long prairie grass behind the parking lot, “there could be rattlesnakes there,” she’s telling the kid. 

Well, the ground could sink and the Upside Down could grip the kid’s ankles too, so rattlesnakes? Steve uses his hand to wipe the stupid reckless smile off his face, pushes off the car and starts the trek after Billy. 

It’s Summer again. The way the sun catches on Billy’s golden curls, and gets hurled into his corneas off the silver of his jewelry is distracting. But if Billy falls to a bloody gory death here in the middle of a National Park, well, then that’s on Steve and he’s not ready to bear that weight. 

It’s not like he hasn’t died already, but this one would be final. He’s certain of it. 

So Steve walks close. Close enough to smell his Calvin Klein Obsession but not close enough to accidentally brush up against him. 

They walk until they’re further away from the crowd of tourists taking photos of their children with the jagged rocks in the background, reaching for the sky with angry claws of stone. They walk until Billy sags against a grey and pink faced stone, shaded from the heat of the day. 

Steve kicks a few pebbles off the ledge and watches them drop. He supposes he had nothing better to do this summer. Working at Family Video and being Dustin’s unofficial big brother. Sure, those things are fun, but a future? Not likely. He kind of misses the little twerp and his never-ending adventures. 

He took care of Billy. Steve might be kind of a dick sometimes but he’s not a dick all the time. Not when it counts. Billy might be a dick pretty much all the time but he’s starting to understand why now. He listened sometimes, while Max talked to him. While he was comatose in Steve’s guest room. His parents’ guest room, but it’s not like they really live there anymore so they didn’t exactly know. His dad spends so much time traveling for ‘business related purposes’ and his mom spends so much time in Miami now, that they’re lucky if they see each other on holidays. Depending on one’s definition of lucky. 

Robin’s taking classes and doesn’t have time to be his only friend that’s over the age of fifteen. So it wasn’t exactly the hardest decision to just leave. And he’s not going to be gone for long. They headed north first, decided to take the scenic route back to California. He’s not sure what Billy has back in the Golden State, but it must be worth more than what he has in Indiana. Steve will either get on a plane back home when they get there, or he’ll take a Greyhound. Depends on how much money he has left. Billy said he’d pay him back for the all the shit. All the shit. All the shit, like, you know, making sure he lived. That shit.

Steve doesn’t really care. His dad might have made it clear he wasn’t worthy of a job at his corporation but he certainly doesn’t notice when a few bills go missing here and there. That’s bad business practice as far as Steve can tell, but it’s not his business and it never will be. It’ll be run by that uptight prick named Lon that his dad treats like his own son. Cute. Very cute. 

Steve kicks another pebble. Listens to it plink, plank, plunk it’s way down the rocks. He listens as Billy flicks his lighter. Listens as he takes a long drag of his cigarette. Pretends the smoke doesn’t bother him. He might be a bitch about him lighting up in the car, but he tells himself it’s only because he hates the smell, the smell that reminds him of his mom, not because he’s worried about Billy’s health after all he’s done to keep him alive in the last year. 

It’s not like he had some overwhelming urge to keep him alive. Not really. Not like they had unresolved issues between them, or a friendship to protect, or really anything at all except a friendly and not-so-friendly rivalry that maybe got outta hand. But the guy did sacrifice himself for the kids. So he couldn’t really just turn his back on him. Under all that bravado is a real heart. Who knew? A heart that the Mind Flayer, or whatever that thing was, couldn’t quite rip out. Just puncture and leave him mostly dead but not totally dead on the floor of the mall. 

Mostly dead all day, there’s a big difference between mostly dead and all dead. Mostly dead is slightly alive. Thanks to Miracle Max, everyone knows the difference now. There’s only one thing left to do with all dead. Go through his clothes and look for loose change.

There wouldn’t be any loose change in Billy’s clothes. Suddenly Steve has some morbid desire to know what is in Billy’s pockets. Aside from the lighter and pack of smokes. Probably keys and a wallet. Condom. Maybe a photo or two? What would Billy keep photos of? He didn’t seem too fond of Max, even if he did sacrifice his life for her and her friends. Or maybe he just thought they deserved to live when he didn’t. In, like a, my dad has convinced me that I’m a worthless piece of shit, sort of way. 

“What?” when Steve looks for just a bit too long. 

He shrugs. Averts his eyes. 

Maybe they can find a motel with cable one of these nights. They’ve only spent one night in the car and now they’re in South Dakota. Looking at a giant’s bite mark out of the Earth. 

It’s not a thing that Steve ever thought of doing, taking a road trip with a girlfriend or anything, he just always assumed his life would just be what his father wanted from him. Until his father saw his grades and decided he didn’t like his attitude. Said he acted like an entitled shit. Steve thinks he is what his father raised him to be. So that’s his fault if he acts like he’s entitled. And it’s not like he didn’t try. It’s just that sometimes words don’t make sense. When they’re written on paper. 

He sighs, leaning back against the rock next to where Billy is sitting. Planting one foot flat behind him, tugging at his jacket and wishing he hadn’t bothered putting it on. Summer has started cool. The beginning of tourist season, but not the height of it, stopping at the National Parks along the way seemed like a good idea. Probably something they’d never get to do again. Spending the cash on that instead of hotel rooms. They’re young, they can sleep in the cramped muscle car. Steve would have preferred his BMW, but he wasn’t about to leave it with Billy out in California. So the option wasn’t really an option at all. 

And he’s not gonna lie, the Camaro has snort and it’s a bitch to drive. It makes him want to put it to the floor, stay on the open highway and just go where the world ends, where it drops off into the ocean. Power under the hood that makes itself known with a growl and a roar. Not like the purr of the Beemer. 

Billy must have had enough of this view because he’s getting up, carefully making his way back towards the tourist platform. Careful. God, it’s weird. Billy being careful.

He’s still too skinny. Not in any kind of awkward teen boy sort of way, but in a way that makes Steve think a light breeze could knock him right off the cliffside and they’d be back where they were last summer. With him all bandaged up in a hospital bed, hooked to IVs and shit. It wasn’t like Steve wanted to visit him. Not really. But it wasn’t like the kids could just drive themselves either. So he considered himself a chaperone to the hospital. And he considered himself poor emotional support, but the best they had, when they’d shed tears and pretend to be as tough as Billy was by hiding those tears. He wondered if that’s what made Billy seem so unbreakable. All the hidden tears. 

He saw them. He saw them all. Every single scar. The fresh ones form the Mind Flayer and the deeper ones than that. Older and paler from the years. But still there. Of course he saw them, he had to wash the bastard for weeks. Steve Harrington: personal care nurse, awesome babysitter, subpar basketball player, bad employee, and terrible boyfriend. That’s him. 

“Maybe I should stay in LA, see if I can get a nanny gig for some rich, famous asshole.”

Billy snorts an unintelligible response and slides into the passenger side of the car. He cranks the window down as Steve settles in the driver’s seat, taking a moment to run his fingers over the gear shift. Fuck, this car, it’s brash and loud and everything that Billy Hargrove should be driving. It has too much power and could easily get him in trouble. 

He lays rubber in the parking lot. Just because he can. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Billy hiding a smirk by watching out the window.

——————

On the Western side of the park, the sun is starting to sink low on the horizon. There’s a daisy that looks like it’s been through hell, but it’s dusty and smiling towards the sun as it fights the wind. Alone in a field of grass and possible rattlesnakes. Along the Southern side of the road is more mountains. This end is mountains that appear to be made of sand and dyed with layers of food coloring. Looking pale and easily crumbled in the dying light of day. They stop again just to see if the rock will crumble under their palms. It doesn’t. So they climb. Climb the layers. Yellow Mounds Overlook was what the sign said. It’s empty on this side of the park. Maybe all the families from earlier have bedded down the campground in the valley. Or they’ve moved on to the next town. 

The sky looks like it’s on fire. The yellow mounds being marked in gold. Billy’s hair, what is his obsession with Billy’s hair? He’s seen plenty of blondes before, seriously, why does he always look to the guy’s hair? Because it’s damn beautiful and he remembers the way it felt when he ran his fingers through it to untangle the tangles that formed from the pillow that cradled his head while he was silent and unmoving and just blinking blue eyes at him. 

Steve blinks the image out of his head, looks at him now. Just a glance. Just to make sure he’s not shaky with weak, leaded limbs. Not that he’d let it show, but damn it, Steve didn’t put so much effort into his health just to have him die on him now. 

When he stops this time, he stays on his feet, doesn’t light a smoke. Just watches. He watches the scene laid out in front of him. Not a single spike of corn in sight. This earth couldn’t be more different from Indiana. It makes Steve feel small. 

He watches as Billy’s hand rises, between him and the sun sinking low, it rises and pinches the tiny ball of flame in the sky. His face screws up, eyes squinting while his fingers pinch tighter and tighter until the sun is gone. Then he shrugs towards Steve, and starts picking his way back down towards the car in the dying light of day. 

——————

He’s so quiet in the space where he used to be insults and peacocking. It’s off-putting sometimes. Like when Steve can tell he’s thinking too hard about things he doesn’t really want to think about but can’t stop thinking about. Maybe his dad. Or the Mind Flayer. Or the things he did when he was possessed. 

He’s doing it right now. Thinking too hard when he’s supposed to be sleeping. But it’s not like they really did anything to make themselves tired today. Though driving has it’s own set of tired that Steve’s never really been familiar with. He’s not exactly a world traveller. When his dad first bought the vacation house in Miami, he flew down for a weekend with his mom. Being alone with his mom in a fancy house in Miami or a fancy house in Hawkins, what’s the difference? At least in Hawkins he had his own set of friends. Sort of. High school friends are fickle. Image is too important when you’re a teenager.

When Steve turns his head, he’s surprised to see Billy’s glossy orbs locked onto his face immediately. Like he was staring at him waiting for him to turn. 

He’s on his back, spread as much as he can be, across the backseat. Steve’s in the passenger seat, reclined as far as it’ll go. Mostly invading Billy’s leg room but they decided it was the best way for them to both get the most space they could without invading each other’s intimate space. Or something like that. Like how if you have to sleep with a dude, like, on a basketball trip or at summer camp or whatever, sleeping pole to pole or hole to hole isn’t queer. It’s sleeping pole to hole that makes it queer. Makes sense.

Not that they’re going to end up in the backseat together. That’d be cramped. And awkward no matter which way either of them was facing. 

So Steve told Billy to just take the backseat, not argue it, since it’s his car and all. But what he meant was since his body is still all messed up and probably will be for a long time, or maybe the rest of his life, then he should have the most comfortable sleeping spot possible. He’d never say that though. Not to Billy. And he’s certain Billy would never admit that his body is messed up. 

He’s Billy Hargrove after all. 

Steve’s not really sure why Billy Hargrove is staring at him right now. Instead of sleeping. 

The windows are cracked, letting some cool night air in. It gets cold as hell at night still. Probably will for the duration of this trip unless they decide to drop South and get somewhere warmer faster. But there was something about heading North that was more appealing. Either route had it’s own downfalls, of course it would have been cool to take 66 all the way across. But Billy said it wasn’t nearly as cool as everyone made it out to be. Americana is lame. Apparently.

Suddenly the staring has crossed way beyond awkward, “take a picture Hargrove, it’ll last longer.”

The corner of his mouth quirks, hand coming up to cradle his head with his bent arm. When his leg adjusts, it knocks the back of Steve’s seat. If he was thinking anything deep, he’s not going to share it. 

Sometimes Steve just wants to ask. How it felt. Standing up to the Spider Monster like that. If it ever felt like he’d take the win, if he ever at any point thought that he could actually harm it with his bare hands. Or push it back. Or if he knew the whole time he was just distracting it, buying the kids some time to get out. 

Sometimes he wants to ask what it felt like to look at it, that close up. That thing was like a ‘this is your brain’ being the demogorgon, and ‘this is your brain on drugs’ being the Spider Monster. Any questions?

At least they aren’t the Reefer Madness generation. Because everyone knows a little reefer never hurt anyone. Not really. Not in the way Reefer Madness made it seem. Bogus. 

If the Upside Down and everything that came with it wasn’t an experience shared among friends, Russians, and scientists, Steve might think the whole thing was just some weird nightmare, Or if he did drugs he’d think it was a bad trip on acid. 

His fingers flit over the handle of the bat, tucked in beside his leg and ready for when the world goes strange again. He figures it’s only a matter of time and that was only the surface. Someday it’ll open back up and spread like the disease that it is. Or maybe if he gets far enough away and never comes back he can just pretend that none of it ever happened and live a normal life somewhere else. 

Maybe California.

His head turns again, eyes landing on Billy’s lips that are finally smooth and moist instead of that dried cracked white-edged mostly-dead-all-day look they had for months. He watches them press together, his tongue run over his teeth behind them and instead of growing a pair and just asking him what he’s thinking about, he blurts, “good night.”

Billy grunts back a, “night,” even though Steve is sure he’s not about to go to sleep. As long as he quits staring, then it’s fine. He’s pretty well lodged back there, he’s not going anywhere. Besides, if he pulls the door open the dome light will wake Steve. Why does Steve care? Really, he has no idea. Theoretically because he spent all that time and all those resources that weren’t really his anyway on keeping Billy alive. So, well, why stop now? 

———————

It turns out not to be a door opening, or closing, or a dome light coming on, or an engine starting or any of that stuff that he’d expect; it actually turns out to be a bunch of thrashing and sleep-talking or mumbling that wakes him. 

It’s dark. Pitch dark. And the kicking on the back of his seat is almost rhythmic and calming. When he turns his head to look, it’s Billy’s hands combined with the words that send a chill up his spine. Thinking it’d be perfectly natural to have nightmares about the Upside Down, it’s what he was expecting. It’s what he’s seen in the last few months. Or nearly a year. Hell, he’s had his own nightmares about the demo-dogs overtaking him in the junkyard. Among all the other nightmare inducing creatures in the night.

At least nightmares about the Upside Down are ones he can understand. But this? This, “please stop Dad,” with his hands up in defensive positioning in front of his face, “I’m sorry,” his voice sounding so small and terrified, “I’ll never do it again,” before his entire body twitches and he’s trying to turn over to hide completely. 

But there’s no room. No space to hide in the backseat of a ’79 Camaro. So instead he ends up with his narrow hips lodged between the seat and the gear shift. His legs and upper body still on opposite ends of the seat, and his head at an odd angle, hidden behind his arms and hands. 

Well, he’s awake now. So it’s probably best if Steve just pretends to still be asleep. And doesn’t make eye contact. If he does, Billy will certainly get pissed, pretend it was all just nothing. Maybe make up some bullshit about a dream-father version of the Mind Flayer. But Steve’s not that stupid. Sure, nightmares come in all shapes and sizes. Sometimes an overactive imagination can conjure scares out of simple everyday objects. Problem here is, Steve’s seen it. He’s seen every inch of Billy’s flesh. Every scar. Cigarette shaped burns on his thighs, high in his groin. Belt lashings on his backside. Faded with weeks or months or years but if a leather belt leaves a lick in the same spot for months bordering on years falling into a decade worth of lashings, they tend to stick around for awhile. He has no idea when Neil would have lashed Billy for the final time. Maybe it was only days before he died, or mostly died, but those little round burn scars dotting his thighs and groin. Those places hidden by underwear, those places that even in a locker room full of teammates, no one would look. Those places where no one would look, no one but whatever random girl Billy hooks up with throughout the years, and even then with dim lights or no lights at all; there is a reason they were left where they were left. So no one would see them. And maybe so Billy would remember whatever he did to piss off his father, he’d remember it every time he looked at his own private parts. Every time he held them in his hand. Or every time a girl held him. Or ran a tongue over him. Or…

That’s enough of that. It appears as though two days and two nights in a car without any real human interaction, just Billy, has done nothing to kill his teen boy hormones. He’ll be twenty soon though. Maybe that’ll be enough to kill his teen boy hormones. Probably not. Guys don’t even hit their sexual prime until like thirty. Or something. That’s old. By then, Lon will be running Dad’s company and Mom will have run off with the pool boy. By then, Robin will have a real person job with a degree and an office. By then Dustin will probably be working for NASA. And Steve, well, maybe he’ll be selling used cars. Probably. Balding and getting a beer gut. The star of local commercials, ‘c’mon down to Bob’s used car lot, tell ‘em Steve sent ya’, it might suck to be Steve but it sucks worse to be Bob. Damn. If Steve goes back to Hawkins he might as well dig himself a grave as soon as he crosses the town line. Maybe his dad will buy him a nice plot on the grassy knoll in the Catholic cemetery. His mom will cry and dab at her cheeks, she’ll smell like gin and have blood-red fingernails under a black lace half-veil. She’ll look very stylish in her grief. His dad will wear that pinched expression he has always worn when he looks at Steve. Like he must have been the product of his lesser semen. Some idiot gene that skips a generation in the Harrington line and he just happened to have snuck past his mother’s defenses and beat out all the smarter, harder working semen. It was a fluke. 

By the time he hears Billy move again, he’s well down in the pit of self-pity and ready to just get a move on. So pretending to still be asleep is pretty futile anyway. He pulls the hand lever on the seat, listens as it grinds up to meet his back, and sighs, “ready to bounce?”

Steve watches from the corner of his eye as Billy scrubs both hands over his face, running them back through his mullet and then sighs, “totally.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So... let me take a minute to introduce myself. I have a bad tendency to just jump right into a fandom without reading much of anything (if anything at all) within it, so I have no idea how other fans and writers have characterized, or back-filled these characters. It's going to take me a minute to get a real voice nailed down for either of them, even though this is my third work for them, it's the first one that has potential to be long and actually have plot. Maybe plot. I don't quite know yet. 
> 
> I'm not sure what this fandom deems as too far - I have a tendency to dig in when I decide to dig in and toss all the rules out the window. I'll try warning chapters appropriately but if I miss any trigger warnings, please take a deep breath and ask me to add them. I don't do betas because I'm a complete control freak. If it's tagged, then it's more of a running theme than a chapter by chapter warning.
> 
> I mostly just assume that if canon events and warnings are triggers for someone, then they're smart enough to not read the fandom? But I know what assuming does... But based on the canon levels of gore, blood, and horror... I think I'll stay below canon levels on this one. 
> 
> There will be undertones of period typical attitudes. Which include homophobia, sexism, and racism. Just because those things are included, does not mean that I condone them. It just means that I am trying to stay true to the decade in which it's set. The problem with forgetting history is that we forget the true meaning of social movements that have brought us to today's attitudes. While the '80s was a more openminded decade than previous ones, it still wasn't as openminded as today. 
> 
> I like a good comment section so feel free to chat. I hate mindless negativity, so that can be left at the door. I welcome constructive criticism - you know, the stuff that's actually helpful :) 
> 
> K, so that's me. In a nutshell. Say hello if you'd like to let me know you're reading, or hit the kudos button of you'd prefer silent support :) I make no promises on how long this will take me to write and post since I've still got open works all over the place... and chapters of other works just floating around in thin air...


	3. Shadows Of The Sky's Sadness

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Billy

Shadows Of The Sky’s Sadness

It’s easy to live when you’re not afraid to die. But it’s hard to die when you’re afraid to live.

Billy’s seen this side, that side. And all the spaces in between the two. 

Leaning his head back against the seat to watch the scenery whir by. He’s not sure what’s more boring, the corn or the plains of grass. At least the corn doesn’t stink the way the cows do.

Steve’s been singing along to the radio. Mostly quiet. When he starts singing along to “Kiss” by Prince it gets more than a little ridiculous. Billy tries to hide his amusement with a mask of annoyance. But when he starts doing air kisses towards the windshield he resorts to hiding his smile with his hand and turning his head to watch out the window. 

——————

Billy’s not afraid to dream. He’s not afraid to relive the parts of his life that come back to the front of his nightmares. What he’s afraid of, is the moments between the two. When he can’t tell what’s real anymore.

He watches the rain trail tears down the windows. The way it plays patterns through the glow of the street-lamps. Shadows of the sky’s sadness. His mother always used to say that even the sky got sad sometimes. 

One hand remains on his chest, fingers pressing dents through the fabric of his shirt. Knowing exactly where it is. Where that mark is. Where it will remain forever. Reminding him, whispering to him of death. 

The other hand reaches out, lingers in the space between his face and the shadows of the night through the Camaro’s window. He watches his fingers splay, tracing patterns in the air. 

——————

Montana is moving past them. Flat plains that are quickly turning into mountains, rivers, and lakes. 

There’s a wicked looked cloud looming over them when they stop at a diner. 

“Maybe we should just stay at a motel tonight,” Steve throws his napkin on the table, beside his empty plate. Leaning back in the booth, eyeing Billy’s half-full plate, “that storm looks like kind of a nasty one.”

“King Steve can’t handle sleeping in the car for another night?” Billy tries, but the taunting is only half-hearted. 

He shrugs, runs a hand through his hair, “could use a a real night of sleep.”

Billy’s eyes dart over to Steve’s, looking for long enough to see the smudges of shadow under his eyes. He’s not sure what he’s supposed to say, so he doesn’t. Thanking him won’t be enough. But Billy isn’t certain he wants to thank him either. Dying would have been easier. Dying would be freedom.

——————

The motel is cheap. Dirty. Probably a murder or two been committed here. 

“There’s a pool,” Steve announces, tossing his bag on the bed closer to the window. Tugging the curtains open long enough to scan the grounds, “I’m gonna go get a six pack. I’ll be back in a bit.”

——————

Billy watches through the dirty window as Steve stops to use the payphone. A brown bag tucked under his arm, nestled against his hip.

Billy thinks it must be nice to have someone to call. Just to check in. Even if it’s just one of those dweeby kids. 

——————

He sits on the ledge of the pool, listening to the thunder rolling in. A low groaning sound every once in awhile. 

Watching his legs swaying back and forth in the water. His t-shirt is damp with sweat in the tail of the evening sun. 

Leaning back on his palms, tilting his head towards the sky. Even when he’s warm to the touch, he’s cold on the inside. Closing his eyes, he can feel California looming near. Another new life. With old scars.

——————

His head is getting blurry after only his third beer. Blurry enough that when he sees Steve floating by on his back, without thinking he yanks off his t-shirt, hops in the water. 

He shoves Steve, just enough to push him under, not long enough to hold him there. He comes up sputtering and splashing water in Billy’s face with an expression turning into a smile. 

It’s only when he hears a mother whispering to her child, “don’t stare honey,” that he remembers. He was a monster once. He’ll wear the mark of that monster for the rest of his life. 

——————

“Little kids are,” Steve tries later, when he returns to the room, “curious,” he finishes lamely with a shrug.

Billy doesn’t respond. He doesn’t need pity. He doesn’t need stares. And he certainly doesn’t need Steve’s idiotic explanations of human nature. 

——————

The wind is dragging a tree branch across the pane of glass. Scraping and hissing in his ear as he tries to sleep. Angry drops of rain shattering themselves on the window, on the roof. 

He’s to his feet and exiting the room. The rain is cool. The night air is still warm. 

The storm is angry. But it has a calming effect on Billy. Knowing that Mother Nature is capable of the anger he’s always felt gnawing at his insides. Knowing he’s not alone in wanting to tear himself apart. In wanting to rumble and spark and cry. Wanting to rip trees from the ground and leave nothing but a scar behind.

He’s at the ledge of the pool. Letting the rain splash violently on his bare shoulders. 

A laugh balls up in his belly. Rolling up his chest. Exiting his mouth in waves. Tilting his head up to the sky. Letting the rain water fall into his mouth. The sky lighting up around him with shocks of lighting. The ground reverberating beneath him with the concussions of thunder.


	4. Already Broken

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Steve

Already Broken

Billy is sitting on the bottom of the pool. Great.

Steve only panicked when he woke up to the sound of thunder and angry rain splattering the windows. He’s so tired. So godawful tired and he just wants to get one good night, just one, before they move along. Yesterday he was thinking taking a trip to Yellowstone for the day, and the Tetons, and hell, maybe even Glacier since they’ll never get to do it again. And doing it on his dad’s dime, even if his dad doesn’t know that’s what Steve is spending his summer doing. 

He plops himself down on the ledge of the pool.

When he realized Billy wasn’t there, back in the room, he checked first for the Camaro. Part of him relieved it was still there and he still had a ride. Part of him wishing it was gone and he could just wash his hands of this whole ordeal. 

He runs his hands through his hair. Wishing he had never found that care-giver side of himself. 

After he checked for the car, he ran to the lobby, smashing the bell for what felt like an hour to get the attention of the night attendant who is probably used to checking people in for hourly rates. Hell, he probably gives them the room for a deal with the perk of being allowed to watch. He looks like that kind of a sleaze. 

Guy hadn’t seen Billy. Though Steve wasn’t sure he was listening to anything that came out of his mouth, his eyes never leaving the bat in his grip. He’s certain one of these days he’ll get in trouble for having a spiked bat always at hand, but it’s not like it’s a loaded gun. Nothing about carrying a baseball bat is against the law.

Panic was ramping up in Steve’s gut when he pushed his way into the pool. It’s closed. Of course it’s closed, they’re probably supposed to treat it at night. But it certainly doesn’t look like it’s been treated any time recently, or smell any stronger of chemicals than it did earlier. Hell, Steve’s probably going to come out of this with some kind of flesh-eating disease. 

Rainwater soaks through his shorts immediately when he sits. The drops falling from the sky are getting more and more sporadic now. The storm moving on. 

He watches the bubbles rise. One by one from Billy’s mouth. The bastard grew up on the ocean, he can probably hold his breath forever.  
The water has lifted his hair into some strange halo of golden curls like some kind of etherial sea monster. The guy looks like a goddamn angel with his perfect tendrils, his blue eyes, and his pretty lips. But damn if he acts like one. Ever. 

Maybe that’s why the Mind Flayer took him. He looked innocent enough to use as a puppet. Steve supposes the Mind Flayer took him for granted, thinking he was some idiotic pretty boy that he could bend to his will. He? it? Either way, turns out Billy’s mind is stronger than the Mind Flayer thought it was. 

Steve sighs, his eyes finding the impalement scars even through the layers of translucence between them. He supposes Billy’s body was stronger than the Mind Flayer thought it was too.

He watches as Billy finally rises from the bottom of the pool. Back towards Steve when he surfaces. Unaware of no longer being alone here. 

He should probably clear his throat. Or call his name. Or something to let him know his privacy is gone. But he finds himself tongue-tied when Billy’s hands slide his hair back, head tilting towards the sky. The sky that is starting to clear of clouds, revealing a lighter black of early morning beneath. The storms in the plains, they roll in quickly, hit hard, and roll out like they were never there. Maybe that’s what Billy did in Hawkins. 

Billy’s hands are splayed on the surface of the water. Floating there beside him without moving. The image of his hands pushing back at the Spider Monster flashes through Steve’s mind and a chill races down his spine. 

It’s hard to put words to what they’ve experienced form the Upside Down. Monsters that used to be things of nightmares, of fairytales, of children’s board games, of movies. Monsters that became real, slinking out of nightmares to start existing in every corner of night and day. Sometimes it’s hard to tell what part of the world is awake and what part is some weird never-ending nightmare share between half the population of Hawkins while the rest moves around like nothing strange is happening. 

His hand rises, sliding over his face and he sighs. 

The sigh loud enough to grab Billy’s attention with a flinch, “sorry,” he mutters when his eyes land on Steve.

This Billy. This one that flinches and apologizes and is afraid of his own shadow. Steve hates this Billy. Not that he ever really liked the brash, unbreakable, loud, obnoxious, violent Billy either but at least he had some life in him then. He wasn’t apologizing for his very existence.

The old Billy was unbreakable. A force. This Billy is already broken. By so much more than the Upside Down.

“What’s in California?” maybe it’s a question he should have asked before they left Hawkins. Maybe it’s something he should have wondered months ago when Billy finally started talking again. When he started talking about California. The surf and the sun. 

“Told you already. Beaches and bitches.”

Steve gives him an exasperated sigh, getting to his feet, “whatever man,” is all he has the energy to offer. Maybe he can get a few more hours of sleep, “check out’s at ten. Wake me up before then.”

“How much time you need to pretty yourself up in the mornin’?” he taunts, but even his taunts are broken little pieces of the things he used to be, “should I wake you at eight so you can primp King Steve? I live to serve.”

Steve flips him off, leaning the bat on his shoulder as he exits the pool. 

He hears a whispered, “sorry,” echoing off the tiles as he leaves. It makes his blood run cold, remembering all of the secrets Billy has uttered in his sleep in the months he’s been around him. And even if they’ve never talked about it when they’re both awake, the last thing Steve wants to be is something resembling Billy’s dad.

Stopping in his tracks to wonder gruffly, “for what?” as he spins on his heel to look Billy straight in the eye. 

His hand is pushing water off his face, his eyes sparked with the reflections off the surface of the pool. He shrugs, his voice sounds anything but nonchalant, “I’m a burden.”

Steve has an unjustifiable urge to jump into the pool and shake Billy until the real Billy rises to the surface again, spits in his face and socks him in the gut or something, something to prove he’s still alive in there. Mostly dead all day isn’t all dead, but maybe mostly dead all year is.

Steve shrugs, “no more of a burden than you’ve ever been,” shooting him half a grin and walking away before he does something stupid.

———————

When he jerks awake in the stiff sheets that smell like moldy cigarettes, the clock is announcing past noon at him, “fuck,” scrubbing a hand into his eyes and blinking away the fog to be certain. 12:47 in nice red numbers. Damn it.

He told him before ten. He’s probably gone this time. Probably took off and left Steve here alone to find his own way home. That sounds more like the Billy Hargrove he knows and hates. Hate is kind of a strong word. Dislikes. Dislikes in a not-so-friendly rivalry type of way. With a side of what might be mutual respect.

He drags himself to the edge of the bed before he has the nerve to check the other dingy mattress. Assuming it’ll be empty and he’s going to have to smooth talk his way through a late check-out without the fee and maybe a ride to the airport. If there is an airport anywhere in a hundred mile radius of this rinky dink town. Steve thought Hawkins was small and full of hicks. He hadn’t seen anything until he saw cowboy hicks. 

His eyes scan over slowly, full of a strange trepidation that sinks further than just the prospect of finding a way out of here, something deeper that he’s not willing to admit or identify even if he could. 

The breath he didn’t realize he was holding starts exiting slowly when his vision is met with Billy’s bare feet poking out from beneath the bottom of the sheets. And the horribly stiff top blanket tossed on the floor. 

He should stop there. Knowing he’s here and he’s at least alive enough to still be pink on the soles of his feet. Maybe he should crane his neck to get a view of his nail beds and see what tone they are. 

But he doesn’t stop there. For reasons he’s not ready to acknowledge. 

His eyes take in the delicate hairs around Billy’s ankles. The dip between his achilles and the knob of bone. Steve’s certain he’s never looked at the intricacy of Nancy’s ankles. Maybe Robin’s once. 

The sheet is tucked between his knees, knobby with stringy muscles leading a trail up his thighs. Thighs speckled with burn scars, scars that usually hide under his shorts. Steve’s mouth tastes sour as he counts them. From the one closest to the hem of where his boxers would normally fall, up the row to where they’re rucked up in his fitful sleep. His fingertips twitch, wanting to reach out and pull the sheets over his marks. Marks he’s become so familiar with in the last year. Marks he can’t allow himself to fear or be awestruck by. Marks he can’t allow himself to pity. Not when Billy can see it on his face. 

HIs vision catches on the curve of his ass, under the starchy white sheets, the way it dips into his lower back. Steve doesn’t have to see what’s beneath the sheet to know it. To know how it feels under his hands when he’s rubbing a gentle trail of soap up the lean, strong muscles. The hard bony flats. The knobs of his spine. And the silk of his scar. Just a millimeter to the left and his spine would have been severed. 

Steve bites his lip, rubs at his eyes. He doesn’t like to let himself think. He’d rather not care. But when he does, when he really thinks, it hurts to know. It hurts to know that Billy gave his life for the rest of them, that Billy deemed himself less worthy, sacrificed himself for the lives of everyone in that mall that day and probably half of Hawkins. Half the world by the time the Mind Flayer got what it wanted. Hell, maybe the whole world. 

Eighteen years old, maybe nineteen by then, and already unworthy of living. 

Billy’s hand twitches where it’s hanging off the edge of the bed, his flesh goosebumps and his body presses closer to the mattress unconsciously.

Steve sighs lightly, retrieves the quilt off the floor and settles it over Billy’s narrow frame. Spreading it over him until nothing but the very top of his head is visible. 

———————

By the time Steve showers, pays for another night, and heads to the corner store for some lunch fixings Billy is propped up against the headboard, the remote in his hand and the flash of lights from the TV making patterns on his face. The curtain is still drawn and Steve thought after the guy spent nearly a year in bed, he’d be more likely to want to see daylight. And move. Move like his body is supposed to move.

He drops the bag on the foot of the bed, gaining Billy’s eye contact, “we’re gonna eat lunch and then go find something to do in this podunk town.”

——————

Slow. Sure, recovering is slow. And walking is slow. And this little town’s main street looks like all the other main streets in small town US. Run down store fronts, concrete curbs, parking meters. Red, white, and blue flapping in the gentle summer’s breeze. Petunias spilling out of window boxes. Bike racks outside every store. Newspaper stands. 

The difference with this one, is that it’s bordered to one side by massive mountains reaching through the sky. Snow peaked and jagged. Behind them, nothing but corn and windswept plains. And in front of them? A place as far away from the Upside Down as this world can produce. 

Billy stops, leans against a parking meter and lights a smoke. His hands are trembling. 

Steve leans back against the brick storefront, shoving his hands in his pockets. His eyes drag over the mountains again. He feels so small in their footprint. 

“The American dream,” Billy mumbles, his eyes scanning the street, the cigarette bobbing between his lips. 

The sun is fingering his curls into spun gold, “white picket fences and general stores?”

He shrugs towards the red and white stripes, “and a flag that might mean more than it ever did before. Or it might mean even less.”

Whatever the hell that means. He doesn’t give Steve time to respond, cocks his head towards a tavern, “see how long it takes to get kicked out?”

It sounds like a challenge. One that Steve is willing to accept.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Kudos and comments are awesome!
> 
> Stay healthy :)


	5. Where The Ocean Becomes Sky

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Billy

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, damn, finally in the rewatch where I realize that the Camaro is beyond repair... we'll just turn our heads to that :)
> 
> It's been a minute since I've posted on this one, so I'm going to go ahead and throw a handful of chapters at you. I'm also going to take a minute to talk a bit more about the tags. Especially the implied racism tag. With everything that is going on that this moment, I'm going to [ leave this here ](https://www.obama.org/anguish-and-action/) for some resources on police reform, and antiracism. The period typical attitude tag feels a little misleading, it's labeled period typical attitude and it's in association with Neil (who for all intents and purposes is the villain of Billy's life). Being 'period typical' does not mean that racism has disappeared or even lessened in the time since, it doesn't mean it's gone away now, but it's also something I'm not going to ignore. This tag will be explored further in the storytelling and we will learn that Billy's relationship with a black boy his age in California is where the bulk of that warning is coming from (Neil's attitude towards that and how it affected Billy and his love for this boy). The period typical attitude is also in regard to homophobia - yet another thing that has not gone away, and the struggle for LGBTQ+ to be accepted in society has not been erased - and also for sexism. Now, these attitudes are coming from the villains in this story. These are not attitudes that our main characters have towards each other or anyone around them (Billy has internalized homophobia that we'll continue to address as this story proceeds). 
> 
> I hope, as I always hope, that I am treating these topics with respect and without ignoring them. While none of these attitudes have been erased, I do believe that as further generations continue to come of age, we will move closer to a world where every human is accepted as a human, for all of their characteristics and we can be more open to love our differences while never hiding them. 
> 
> I also understand that at this time, it may be too hard to read a story containing any of these topics. So I'd like to remind you to be mindful of tags, now and always, understand where your triggers lie. Be careful to read chapter warnings. Take care of your emotional and mental health. I hope you can stick around and trust me to deliver a happy ending. But if you can't, may we meet again down the road. Thanks friends :)

Where The Ocean Becomes Sky

The country and western music is loud, the whiskey burns on the way down and the pounding in his head is making Billy feel stupid and reckless. 

He pushes against the twinge of pain in his temple. Scans the crowd behind the three girls that flocked to him and Steve as soon as they walked in. Much to the chagrin of the cowboys lined up along the edge of the place. Looking like rejects at a high school dance.

Billy’s already weighed his options. The first girl with the big red hair, a Tawny Kitaen wannabe. The blonde with the fake tits and sequined shirt. And the mousy brunette along for the ride with her more popular sisters. She’s probably the DD. Billy hates her as much as he pities her. 

When his eyes catch on the redhead’s strands in the dim light of the tavern, he thinks briefly of Max. He thinks maybe he should call her some day. At least let her know. 

But Steve’s been keeping in touch with the nerd herd. So she knows. And there’s no sense in taking that chance. Taking that chance that Dad will answer the phone. 

He throws another shot back. Lets it burn down his throat until it hits with a slosh in his stomach. His stomach that is always raw and burning now. Wanting to revolt against food. As his mind wants to revolt against the worried looks that Steve throws his way every time he leaves food on his plate. 

That anger claws. Wanting to tear through him and reach out. Grip cold fingers around a neck and feel the air seep through the throat beneath his hands. Maybe the mousy one would let him do it. She’s probably desperate and has shitty enough self-esteem to do anything.

He nudges Steve’s arm, tilts his head towards the pissers and parts the flock of women. He’ll let the booze work it’s way further into the chick’s system before he makes a move. Not that he thinks she needs it. 

He doesn’t bother looking around when he enters the bathroom. Plants his feet wide at the urinal, lights a smoke, takes a drag long and deep. Letting the smoke dangle in the corner of his lips as he unzips. 

Sometimes when he closes his eyes, it’s still him. It’s his hands soft, gentle on his cock. Stroking it to life as his lips press insistently against his on the beach at night. Nothing but the stars and surf around them. Where the sky is infinite. And he can see with his own two eyes the curve of the Earth on the horizon where the ocean becomes sky becomes ocean again. 

He tips up on his toes as the last tingle of piss slides forward. Only opening his eyes when he hears someone take a step up to the urinal beside him. Usually bad manners to take the urinal right next door when there’s three empty. 

Billy turns his head as he shakes himself off, the guy is watching Billy’s hands. And Billy’s hands are ‘bout to be clenched into fists and knocking his pearly white teeth out of his skull, but then the guy grins, wide and flirty, “what’s a pretty stranger like you doin’ in a shit-hole like this?”

He looks about the same age. He’s got a George Strait kind of look to him, and Billy only knows ‘cause Neil’s been a big fan of the King of Country, and wouldn’t that make daddy proud? Good old Billy bending over for a dick in the ass in some hick bar with a George Strait lookalike. 

The corners of his lips quirk and he motions towards his dick where he hasn’t bothered to tuck it back into his jeans yet. 

This night is about to get a lot more interesting than just some mousy chick with poor self-esteem.


	6. The Devil Didn't Want You

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Steve

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings in place on this chapter include homophobic slurs, there's a fight but it's not very graphic.

The Devil Didn't Want You

Local cowboys didn’t exactly look pleased when Steve and Billy walked in. Immediately being flanked by the only three girls in the place that were under the age of a hundred. He’s been mindful of the glares all night, but not very concerned. He’s not planning on actually getting with any of them. A little flirting never hurt and having something resembling conversation with someone other than Billy feels pretty good.

He didn’t like the look of the guy that followed Billy into the men’s room, and he didn’t like the way he was eyeing him as he walked by. Giving him only a minute or two before he walked in after him. It’s been too long. And even if they had some kind of hitting it off thing happening at the urinals they would have moved it back out here by now. 

Steve glances at the clock on the wall. Scans the room for that blonde mullet he’d know anywhere, maybe he came back out when Steve wasn’t watching. Unlikely. Steve’s idiotic caregiver senses have been honed in on Billy since he started walking again.

He scrubs a hand over his face, opens his mouth to excuse himself from the ladies but quickly his blood turns to a boil when the other three cowboys get up, shaking out limbs and cracking knuckles, rolling their necks. Loosening up for a fight. 

They head directly for the men’s room.

Steve is well aware that his most prominent quality is also the one that’s probably going to get him killed one day. And today just might be that day. But Steve never backs down from a fight. Ever. Even when it’s very against all manner of self-preservation. Who’s he kidding? it’s always against self-preservation, he’s not exactly known for winning fights.

“Shit,” he grits out as he leaps off the bar-stool, sending it clattering to the dirty barroom floor. 

There are four of them. And Billy used to be a maniac who probably could take out all four on his own. But now? Steve’s not sure if Billy will even withstand a single punch. Or a strong breeze for that matter. Yep, Steve is gonna die tonight. 

The spiked bat is back at the room. He should know better than to ever leave that thing behind. He really is a dingus.

In so many ways.

But a weapon has to be around here somewhere. His eyes scan over the decorations on the wall as he makes his way quickly to the men’s room. He might slide over a table instead of walking around it for some flair, but if he did that’s between him and the table. And the pretty girls that are no doubt watching him.

The wall is covered in saddles and horse stuff. And there it is, some kind of stick with two pokers at the end of it. It won’t do the damage that the bat does, but it’ll do more than just his fists will. 

He yanks the door open and from there it’s all autopilot. he hears a lot of repeated, ‘faggot's from these guys and he wants to tell them to get more creative. He takes note of Billy’s crumbled form on the floor with his pants still down. Those bastards couldn’t even let him tuck it back in before they started this shit. 

He doesn’t give himself time to think it through much at all. Or really, even a tiny bit. If he’s being honest. He just sees all the effort he’s put into Billy’s health over the last year bleeding on the floor of some shitty bathroom in some shitty bar in some shitty Wyoming town, and he acts. He stabs the first guy with the spear end of the rod, stabs him right in the lower back, he’s not sure how sharp these things are, if they’ll get through denim very easily, but he knows they’ll get through that barely-there material of his pearl-snap shirt. Right to the kidney. And when the guy drops, he kicks him in the face. Shit, he should be wearing boots for this. Okay, now it makes sense why Billy is always wearing boots. Shit.

It really blurs from there. Since someone smacks him good and hard with something that feels like a rock. Or a toilet seat. Or the lid of the toilet. Or something, he hears himself holler, “get up Billy!” and feels himself swing the rod a few more times. He knows he makes contact, he’s just not sure what he contacts. It happens a few times before the rod is yanked out of his hand and he takes a swift kick to the ass. There’s more accusations of someone being a ‘faggot’ and ‘your boyfriend coming to your rescue’ and weird shit like that, but it’s all so blurred and rushed in his head that none of it really sinks in. 

Another blow to his head and the lights go out.

———————

Someone makes a noise. One of those noises that’s not very human. And Steve is pretty sure who made it. And he’s pretty sure he knows why. And that’s the sound of one too many hits to the head and face. And body.

He feels a hand on his chin, it’s rough and cold, “did we win?” he’s afraid to open his eyes but he knows by scent and touch that it’s Billy.

He snorts. He’s cigarette smoke and Obsession and sweat. Now with a tinge of sharp blood. Or maybe that’s just what’s stuck in Steve’s nose. One of those noises exits again.

“You really are an idiot Pretty Boy. Keep this shit up and you won’t be very pretty for much longer,” he tilts his face by the grip he has on his jaw and it makes Steve’s stomach twist in that one too many hits to the head kind of ways, “don’t puke on me again.”

“Again?”

“Yeah,” there’s a snicker and he dabs something on Steve’s cheekbone that makes him flinch hard and grasp his wrist to pull his hand away. 

A few deep breaths later, he dares to peek one eye open. It’s not good. The world spins and he feels himself being lurched forward more so than his body having any say in it.

“Would you get it all out this time?” Billy’s hand is on his neck now, the back of it. It’s cool and feels great there. Unlike any other part of Steve’s body.

Another noise escapes him, “did we win?

“Not even close. Probably be bleedin’ out on the floor in there if the bartender hadn’t broken it up. A cattle prod? Really?”

“A what?”

“The weapon of choice.”

“I didn’t have much choice,” he snaps and his head swims again, fingers gripping on the toilet bowl that he was so gracelessly aimed into. 

This is the least Billy could do in return for all the shit Steve’s been doing for the last year. 

“Shoulda left it alone,” Billy grumbles behind him.

“You wanna be dead?” it sounds incredulous but really, he doesn’t blame him if he did. Though, “dying the hero of Starcourt would have been fine, man, but dying some no-namer in some no-name bar isn’t rad at all.”

Billy snorts a response that Steve’s head is too loud on the inside to decipher. 

“A couple of the sounds that I really like are the sounds of a switchblade and a motorbike. I’m a juvenile product of the working class whose best friend floats in the bottom of a glass, oh, don’t give us none of your aggravation, we had it with your discipline. Saturday night's alright for fighting, get a little action in,” he only stops singing because Billy laughs.

Like a real laugh. It’s through his nose ‘cause he probably has a lit smoke between his lips and his hands are still busy with Steve’s neck and his hair. He is most definitely holding Steve’s hair back. And with that thought, the thought of how they look right here right now. Covered in blood and whatever other bodily fluids would have made their way onto them from the public bathroom and between the tavern and the motel, “how’d you get us back here?”

“You sort of walked,” the hand on the back of his neck disappears and leaves a lonely hot spot in it’s wake, as a puff of smoke blows past him.

“Sort of?” he cranes his head now, feeling brave enough to look at Billy. Instantly regretting it when he’s met with blood in different stages of caked, flowing, and starting to trickle, “and you what? Dragged me?”

“Mostly carried,” he shrugs, putting the smoke between his lips again and steering Steve’s head away from the toilet. 

Steve finds that rather unbelievable that Billy could have carried him in the state he’s in. And then it hits him like a rock hard fist to the gut, Billy’s used to it. He’s been used to it all his life. This whole walking around battered and broken thing is relatively new to Steve, and it’s always happened when there was either adrenaline to face demo-dogs and keep the kids safe, or adrenaline and drugs from the Russians that took the edge off. 

But Billy, he’s been doing this his whole life. That thought is what makes Steve’s stomach tremble yet again. Billy aims him towards the toilet again, thumping his lower back gently, “it’s never ending with you,” his body shuffles behind Steve and he announces, “while you finish upchucking I’m showering.” 

Steve only looks over his shoulder at Billy’s naked body while he’s pulling the shower curtain aside to take a quick inventory of his wounds. That’s the only reason. 

——————

There’s not a way to lay comfortably. It doesn’t stop Steve from trying for about an hour before he gives up. Pulls himself to seated and flicks the TV on. 

Billy groans a half-hearted complaint about the light but he doesn’t look like he was sleeping anyway. There’s nothing on in the middle of the night. But they know everything there is to know about the Handy Tool Kit by the time Billy wonders, “that shit they kept callin’ me,” it’s half mumbled and mostly whispered and Steve’s head is still full of water that he can’t seem to drain, “what if, uh, what if it was true?”

“What? Idiot? ‘Cause…”

“That was you, dipshit.”

“Oh. My girlfriend? That the one you mean? ‘Cause you’re pretty and all, but I’m a single man.”

“Faggot. Steve,” he sounds exasperated now and Steve wants to have this conversation with exactly no one ever, “faggot,” and now his damn eyes are on Steve in the darkness. He can feel them reaching out to prickle his flesh.

He can’t just not look at him. He scrubs a hand through his hair, finding that lump on the back of his head and flinching himself right into eye contact. For the amount of time he’s spent with Robin, and the amount of times they’ve talked about hitting on girls together and which ones are more likely to be attracted to Steve and which are more likely to be attracted to Robin and sure, Steve’s wondered how exactly sex works between two females, but he’s never really thought that hard about what the word ‘faggot’ entails, “guys have been having sex with guys since the beginning of time,” and that was by far his finest. It’s not like Steve actually cares. What people do behind closed doors or at parties or in the bathroom of a bar, “wait, was that what that guy, hold on,” there are way too many thoughts rushing around with the blood and spins that are already rushing around in his head. 

“I wasn’t fucking him. Yet,” Billy grits out, “but I would have.”

“Oh,” the words are slow to sink in. The meaning even slower. 

Slow enough that Billy wonders quietly, towards the ceiling instead of towards Steve, “are you mad?”

Holy shit. His first thought is that he wants to say, ‘I’m not your dad,’ and the second thought is, “why the hell would you being sexually attracted to men make me mad?”

It’s quiet in here. Even over the sound of the informercials on repeat. And their breathing. And the branch that keeps scraping on the window. And it’s probably the only tree in like a ten mile radius. And it just has to be right outside their damn window.

“People get,” he sounds like he’s tasting something bitter, or his teeth hurt, or his whole body hurts. It’s probably his whole body, “angry about things like that. People get,” it trails off and his hand rises to cover his face for a moment, “it’s an abomination. And people like me go to hell.”

The silence starts making noise again. Steve lets his head rest back on the headboard that’s nailed to the wall. Turning it to watch Billy in the glow off the TV screen, “I don’t think that’s a problem for you. You’ve already been to hell. Turns out, even the devil didn’t want you,” he chucks a pillow at him when he doesn’t get his eye contact. 

Billy catches the pillow easily, holds it in the air between his face and the ceiling for a long moment, crunches it between his hands until it’s compressed completely, then throws it back, chewing on the inside of his cheek when he watches Steve shove it behind his head and lean back again, “guess you’re right,” the corner of his mouth lifts into a smirk. 

And that seems like it is enough for the night because about ten minutes later his eyes are closed and his breathing has shifted to sleep breathing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Saturday Night's Alright For Fighting lyrics by Elton John and Bernie Taupin.


	7. No Turning Back

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Billy

No Turning Back

Billy takes a deep breath. Lets the air filter into his lungs slowly. His consciousness even slower.

He can count the aches in a pattern. Like his own personal song. A song he’s always known the lyrics to. 

His fingertips travel over his body under the sheets. Finding each point of pain. Pressing in until his teeth grit. And his eyes water. 

He presses hard enough against his rib to make his breath catch. The first hit. He wasn’t expecting it. He should have expected it. It came from behind. The guy’s hand was flat on Billy’s back by then. The other had been gripped to his hip. Just rubbing against him. A getting-to-know-you rhythm. 

It came out of nowhere. A quick jab from that hand that moved away from his hip. A quick, hard one with all the passion of hatred. A passion Billy knows. A passion Billy has felt his whole life.

When the rushing in his head subsides, he pushes his fingertips in again. As hard as he can. Until it all pours through him like white heat. Blood rushing, pain spurting in bursts through his nerves. Growing until it’s a wave he can ride. Splattering in the the blackness of his lids as his breath is forced out with the simple press of fingers into flesh. 

It’s easy to know what he deserves when he’s spent his whole life feeling it.

This time when the wave rolls back to the ocean of the rest of his body, he turns his head, eyes landing on Steve. He could hear him for most of the night, far into the morning, grunting every time he moved. Moving to find a comfortable way to lay. Something he’s not used to. Something Billy’s been doing so long he’s not sure how a normal person sleeps without having to cater to aches and pains. 

He watches in the tiny sliver of light dancing through the dusty line of the motel room, catching on Steve’s hand where it’s splayed on the pillow in front of his face. His knuckles bruised. Billy’s not sure how many hits he got in before he was slumped on the floor. At least the cattle prod was broken before that hick could use it on Steve’s pretty face. Billy can still feel the way it cracked against his knee. And hear it clattering on the cheap flooring as he hurled it towards the stall. 

Steve’s fingers twitch and his breathing shifts, a moan escapes him so quietly that Billy barely hears it. He watches the transformation from sleep to wake. The pinch in his features before they fall open and relaxed again. The way the dim light clings to him like it’s escaping through every pore instead. The air traveling in through his nose, it whistles on some dried blood clogging his nostrils and he opens his mouth with a grunt. The crinkling in his face is less pain and more confusion before his eyes finally roll open.

Squinting at Billy as he takes inventory of all the parts of his body that are starting to wake and starting to hurt. Each throb registering on the watery surface of his irises, “tell me we won,” as his fingers slide through his hair, contacting that knot on the back of his head and he flinches.

“Told you last night.”

“I know, I’m just testing you,” he claims, jerks himself up like a wooden puppet on a string, “I’m a real boy now,” elbows to knees where he’s stopped on the edge of the bed, pinching at the bridge of his nose, “and I don’t think I like it very much.”

———————

By the time they drag out of the room, check out and get in the car, Steve’s movements are still stunted and jerky. So Billy shoves past him and into the driver’s seat without a word. 

Lighting a cig, cranking down the window, letting himself melt back into the seat that was made for him. A second home.

Clamping the smoke between his lips to start the engine. He nearly moans with it. Sometimes he’s not sure what’s sexier, the memory of Phillip’s skin under his fingers or the feel of the steering wheel in his loose grip.

He looks over at Steve, taking a puff of his smoke as his eyes trace over the one eye that’s mostly swollen shut. The idiot really needs to learn how to protect his head. He feels a smirk rising as Steve watches him, revving the engine. 

“Shit,” that sound might as well be an orgasm coiled up in Billy’s stomach. He peels out of the parking lot, leaving a trail of rubber and a cloud of smoke. 

If he’s egged on by Steve’s surprised laugh or by the feel of her beneath him and surrounding him, he’s not sure. Maybe both. 

Dropping gears and heading down the road with no finish line. With no destination. With no turning back. Not today. Not tonight. Not ever.

———————

Billy’s heart is calm as he pulls into a rest stop right outside of Glacier National Park. They spread a map out on the hood and study it carefully as they eat sandwiches in the bright afternoon light. 

When he reaches out to point out an easy campground right on this side of the park, his eyes catch on the split in his knuckle and he remembers how it felt to smash against Steve’s face. In another lifetime. Maybe. 

“Bet we could get some camping supplies at the next town,” he murmurs it. Assuming he’ll be denied, it’s what he’s used to. Asking, suggesting quietly and being denied. Unless he takes it. He learned how to just take it for himself. 

Steve shrugs, he winces every time he bites down, “you wanna turn tree-hugger and get hiking packs and fishing poles?”

He chews the inside of his cheek. Wanting to deflect, he can’t read Steve’s tone. It’s teasing but something more. Something underneath it, like he’d agree to just about anything and maybe that’s what Billy hates most about Steve. 

He pops the last bit of bread into his mouth, looks over the rise in the road ahead of them, mountains looming on the horizon. They have been all day, “I’ve got nothin’ else to do this summer,” with that he’s making his way back to the passenger side. 

Billy takes his time folding up the map. Letting the feeling settle. A feeling that he’s not sure he’s ever had before. Maybe Mom. Maybe that was the only time. 

He creases the final fold, tosses the balled up napkin into the trash can on his way around the hood. He catches Steve’s eye though the windshield, watching him. Without judgment. Without pity. Without hatred. It’s acceptance. Steve is watching him with acceptance. And it’s been so long. 

When he sits in the driver’s seat, he feels the corner of his mouth lift, and he realizes maybe it’s the first time. The first time he’s ever been accepted. For every stupid, hideous layer he has.


	8. Glacier Water

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Steve
> 
> Warning: Return of the Upside Down

Glacier Water

Steve plunks down at the picnic table, resigning himself to just watching Billy have a fight with the tent. It’s a two person tent, but it looks awfully lot like it’s made for one. 

He lifts his hand, pushes against the part of his jaw the’s begging to be pushed at. That dull pain that wants pressure as he works his jaw open and closed a few times. The cigarette is dangling in the corner of Billy’s lips, a thin stream of smoke slowly rising. Steve watches it until it dissipates into the background of green trees. 

There’s a lake filled with glacier run-off a short walk from here. And there’s a trailhead that offers a few different day hike options and some overnight trips. They’re on their own on the trails, but the DNR officer who apparently lives in a camper and makes sure no bears come wandering in at night to eat people in their tents, told them to make noise if they plan to hike. Noise is the key to not getting attacked by a Grizzly. If they know you’re coming they won’t bother you. It’s when you sneak up on them or threaten them that they’ll eat you. Or something like that.

Billy’s cursing quietly under his breath, the smoke bobbing every time he does it. But it’s all very perfunctory. It’s been a long time since Steve’s seen Billy truly angry. He wonders what it would take now. He doesn’t exactly miss it, it’s just another thing that’s gone from him. 

———————

He’s got two weiners jabbed through a stick, cooking over an open flame. And he has an urge to ask Billy why. Why men? 

His eyes drift from the juices leaking out of the hot dog and snapping on the fire beneath, over the yellows and oranges of the flame, landing on Billy. He’s a reflection of the blaze between them. The sparks in his eyes when they meet Steve’s, the yellow of inferno tangling through the yellow of his hair. The light is somehow still soft on his lips where they’re pressed together. 

Steve jerks his gaze away when a feeling starts crawling up his spine that he’s not willing to acknowledge, “you’re burning your weiner,” he mumbles towards Billy.

“Maybe I like ‘em black.”

That sounds like he’s not talking about hot dogs anymore and Steve’s not sure what to do with that. He sort of took Billy as the type to hate blacks. It’s not exactly something that’s come up in conversation. Maybe it wasn’t the color of his skin, but his interest in Max that made Billy go after Lucas. She’s not even his real sister. That would take the protective big brother thing to a whole new level that Steve never suspected of Billy, “are you,” he starts but isn’t sure where it’s going.

“Crispy,” Billy supplies, his eyes dropping to the hot dog that’s more than charred, “they’re crispy when they’re black.”

“Oh, kay,” so he was talking about weiners, “hot dogs roasting on an open fire, sunburn nipping at your nose,” Steve has found that movie quotes and songs sung poorly are the best distraction for any and all things that he’s lost words for. Losing words when he’s around Billy is just something he’s getting used to.

“At least the making noise portion of the hike tomorrow won’t be a problem for you,” Billy groans it, but the smile on his face and the twinkle in his eyes absolutely contradict the tone of his voice. 

“No duh.”

————————

It is goddamn cold at night, Steve’s teeth are chattering even with the sleeping bag snugged up tight around his ears. Getting up for a piss run was a terrible idea. Now all the body heat left his bag and he had to run out there in his underwear and t-shirt because he was not about to sleep in jeans and he didn’t exactly bring a pair of flannel pants along for the drive. Sure, Indiana gets cold sometimes in the winter, but nothing like mountain cold. And damn it, it was warm durning the day, so this is a shock to the system. He’s half expecting frost to be on the tent by morning. 

It’s not his fault at all when he wakes up with his face plastered between Billy’s shoulder-blades, golden hair in his mouth, and Obsession mixed with fresh air in his nostrils. How is he warm enough to not be burrowed into his own sleeping bag? 

Steve’s eyes lazily open, which there’s no point to, he already knows he’s going to be met by a curtain of curls, but he opens them anyway. And as blood is starting to make it’s way back to the rest of his body, he realizes that there’s no sleeping bags between them.

His body shifts away from the warmth trapped between them. He’s nearly certain it’s all his own body heat anyway, feeling now that Billy is still cool to the touch. 

“Your shivering was getting annoying,” Billy mutters without turning his head, having felt the movement of Steve’s waking limbs, “I zipped the bags together. Don’t worry, my homo germs won’t reach out and give you AIDS,” his voice is wide awake, dripping with self-loathing. 

He must have fought his own self-preservation instincts for a long time before he gave in and decided shared body heat was better than unshared, “I don’t,” he scoots his butt back when his mostly asleep body comes to terms with morning wood. Adjusting himself in his underwear, his knuckles graze the rounded lump of Billy’s asscheek. His breath catches, “I don’t care that you’re into guys, alright? I don’t, it’s not like a thing that effects me, you know, I mean, I’m not into guys, so you know that. It’s not like this is some…”

“What is this?” he still hasn’t moved, not even budged a bit, “friends? We’re not friends Pretty Boy.”

“I don’t know. Way too early in the morning and way too cold all night for this conversation. But right now I’m pretty sure we’re just two idiots zipped into sleeping bags in a cold campground in the mountains and I don’t know about what you’re doing next, but I’m not moving until the sun reaches the the top of the tent.”

Billy snorts, it’s muffled against his bicep that’s cradling his head off the ground. Steve rolls over, making sure to flatten his back against Billy’s and trap some heat. 

“You do this camping stuff when you were a kid or what?”

“Sometimes,” Billy’s entire body is one tense muscle rolled into another, “my parents used to,” he pauses for a moment, long enough that Steve is sure he’s running a thumb over his lip, probably wishing for a smoke, “we used to go out sometimes on weekends. There was a campground on a beach nearby where we lived, but far enough away to feel like it was an adventure when you’re a kid,” his voice drifts away and doesn’t come back. 

“I was a boy scout for like five minutes,” Steve offers to keep the dialogue going.

“Boy scout? With the badges and the life skills?”

“Well, my dad was the Scoutmaster so there wasn’t much of the life skills and wilderness thing. He only did it ‘cause it was good press for his business. It wasn’t like it was actually for me or anything.”

“Poor King Steve,” he grunts.

“Money can’t buy everything. I guess.”

“You sayin’ a castle doesn’t mean much when it’s empty?”

“Neither does a trailer I guess.”

“I don’t live in a trailer.”

“Double wide?”

An elbow to the kidney is the only response, but it doesn’t cover the snicker he’s sure Billy didn’t want him to hear. 

————————

“Jesus, when did you become a mom?” Billy’s mouth moves around the cigarette perched in the corner of his lips. His hand rising to motion at the pack of supplies, complete with the spiked bat, Steve hikes up onto his shoulder for the day trip to the other glacier water lake. 

And maybe he should answer that honestly, the day his mom stopped being a mom. But he doesn’t want to know yet, doesn’t want to talk about what would surely come up if he did, he doesn’t want to know what happened to Billy’s mom. The only person that probably ever loved him. So he shrugs it off instead, “lead the way Hargrove.”

“And here, I was hoping to follow your ass through the woods in those preppy shorts,” he snickers, turning on his heal towards the trailhead.

Not that Billy’s shorts are any different, “wait, these are your preppy shorts,” who’s he kidding here? Steve didn’t pack any shorts, his plan was mostly to drive. Drive through the parks, take the long route, see what they could see from the roads. It’s only Billy who wants to get up close and personal with nature, “does sharing clothes make us gay-married?”

“Gays can’t get married. And it’s not sharing when I never gave you permission.”

“I can go back, wear my jeans and bitch the whole time about ball chafes.”

“You’ll be bitchin’ about somethin’ soon enough,” it’s supposed to sound like a grumble, but it doesn’t really. 

He’s not so bad sometimes. Under all the layers of having grown up a kicked puppy. Puppy who learned how to bite back. Then started biting whatever came close. Under that, he’s not so bad. And it’s not his fault he learned to snap at everything that could possibly be deemed a threat.

———————

The trail is long, mostly shaded under layers upon layers of leaves. It’s uphill and sometimes opens to rocky passes that kind of fuck with his depth perception. It’s hard fighting the urge to take Billy’s elbow sometimes, he's so careful now in ways he shouldn’t have to be. 

Steve spends most of the walk whistling and watching the way the shade dances around in Billy’s curls. Suddenly it’s sunshine. Nothing but sunshine gold. The valley beneath them holds a lake surrounded by red stones and pebbles, pine trees, a glacier sitting cold and threatening on the far side. It drops off quickly towards the center, turquoise blue water becoming dark sapphire. 

“Wow,” he hears Billy whisper, unable to hide his awe at the oil painting that is Mother Nature. 

Steve takes a moment to let it all in, assaulting his senses with fresh, clean mountain air and the chills off ice in the heat of summer. Then he claps Billy’s back, moves downhill in front of him. The slope isn’t much, but it’s littered with pebbles and if Steve goes first then if Billy slips he’ll be here to steady him. Or take his weight. 

————————

“Holy shit, that’s cold,” they removed their shoes, found comfortable rocks mixed in with grass to sit in for lunch. Sticking his toes in the water is a shock to the system, “I hope you don’t expect me to wash up in any of these lakes,” he warns Billy, “I’m gonna stink to high heaven this whole time.”

His eyes that hold all the depth of the lake in front of them, lock onto Steve’s for just long enough to shrug. His sandwich might be half gone as Steve crunches into his apple, leans back on his elbows, watches a few clouds passing by in an otherwise blue sky. The breeze off the glacier is chilly. 

They’ve come across two other couples on the trail, no one is out here now. When there’s nothing but core left of his apple, he tilts the rest of the way back. Flat on the ground, letting the cool breeze and the heat of the un fight for space on his sweat-dried skin. 

His eyes drift shut, listening to the sounds of Nature around him and the softness of Billy’s breathing next to him. His eyes close. His eyes close to the bright sunshine, the cool breeze, the white puffy clouds, the golden hues of Billy’s hair and skin. His eyes close to the blues of the lake and the red of the rocks bordering it. His eyes close to the white of the glacier and the green grass surrounding it. The pines and small bushes. 

They open with a start to the sound of a splash on the surface of a cool, blue lake. A blue lake that had not a single ripple of disturbance. 

They open. His eyes open. And everything is dark. The lake is sludge and the trees are vines. The rocks are razor sharp, ground pulsating like a beating heart around him, “Billy,” his hand flails out to his side, searching for Billy’s shoulder. Coming up empty, “Billy!” it echoes back to him with the slow repeat of his own voice off globs of sludge that are covering the lake, skittering with small creatures that look like millipedes but they’re, like, gazillapedes. Shit, “Billy!” 

Steve’s hands scramble for the bat, yanking it free from the pack as his feet find ground and he rises, only to slide down a slick surface of goo foot-first into the lake, “Billy!”

It’s liquid beneath the goo, it stings on his bare skin. Mouth snapping shut on contact, but he’s got a nose-full already and he won’t be able to swim with the bat and his clothes on. His desperate mind trying to make it work anyway. The bat is his only defense, he’s clearly not good at hand-to-hand, shit. His track record sucks. 

Steve’s used to swimming in pools. Pools have no currents to fight. And whatever this lake is filled with, it has a current, a current that feels more like hands around his ankles, dragging him deeper. Swinging the bat with the added resistance of the watery goo around him makes the swing slow, but he connects with something between his feet. Something that the spikes sink into easily and a hiss floats through the liquid as one foot is freed. 

His lungs are burning, his clothes are heavy. 

Another swing, one more is all he has the lung capacity for. And then he’ll have to make a desperate move to the surface. If there is one. If he can find it. If he even can gain any bearings whatsoever. There’s no light to follow, there’s no bottom to push off of. 

He jiggles and jostles the bat through the liquid, building up all the strength he has left in his body for the most impact possible. A burst of hot pain shoots through his ankle but that hiss swaying into his ears is relief and he kicks hard and fast. If there’s more than two of these grippers then he’s toast. He has to find the surface before it can regenerate. 

He’s not letting go of the bat. He’s not going to drown. Shit. He is going to drown. Shit. He’s glad he took his shoes off at least. But his t-shirt feels like it weighs seventy pounds, it’s floating around him, trying to tangle him up. Something grips his waist and he kicks. Eyes forcing themselves open again in attempt to gain some kind of bearings. It stings, his mouth opens to gasp, filling immediately with liquid. 

He’s not sure his parents will miss him. But he should have called Robin this morning. Or Dustin.


	9. Did I Just Get Eaten By A Possessed Lake?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Billy

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: Psychological torture
> 
> It's been a long ass time since I took CPR classes - so I am no expert and none of this is be taken literally, it is fiction.

Did I Just Get Eaten By A Possessed Lake?

The room is dark. In the center is a figure. A human. Hands tied behind their back. Ankles tied to the legs of the chair. 

“Hello?” his voice is weak, water is rushing in his ears.

The person’s head turns, wild red hair falling around her shoulders, “Billy?”

“Max?” He moves quickly, as quickly as he can, dropping to the ground in front of her.

“Your name is Billy Hargrove,” she tells him, “you don’t have to do this. You don’t have to do this Billy,” her eyes are strange in the darkness, her skin an odd color, “it wasn’t your fault Billy,” her voice dips low.

“Max,” his hands slide over the ties on her wrists, her hands are cold. Even to him, “Max,” he tries again. 

Her focus doesn’t shift, “Your name is Billy Hargrove.”

“Max?” 

Suddenly her hands jolt out from under his, she lurches off the chair. The chair hits the ground behind her, but there is no ground. It’s black and it’s liquid. The chair is sinking, Max is walking on top of the water. Billy falls back to his hands, scrambling for purchase where it’s become mucky and slick, “Max?”

She’s twisting, inhuman, skin darkening, pupils growing wide as black lines sneak across the whites, “Billy Hargrove. It was your fault,” her voice is a growl now, limbs creaking, body heaving.

“Max, Maxine Mayfield,” he tries, his voice choking off, “your name is Max. And I’m your brother!”

Her jaw unhinges as her head arches back, her body popping, bones cracking as her frame grows and twists into a monstrous creature. Her face disappearing, becoming a monster he’s seen before, one he has no name for, but her voice is still being carried around the room, “it was your fault Billy! It was all your fault,” it turns into a hiss at the end, “you’re the reason she left you. You’re the reason we had to leave California. You’re the reason all those people are dead Billy. You’re so weak. You’re so weak. You were easy to control. So easy to control,” the voice contorts, the monster leaning over him as he scrambles back, his hands and feet sticking to the goo floating on top of the floor that feels like it’s moving with the sway of waves rolling towards shore, “so easy,” the creature’s face is leaning over him, it’s breath hot and putrid, “it was your fault. All those deaths Billy, they didn’t have to die for naught. I had plans for them. I had great plans for them. But you, Billy!” his name breaks over the sound of the monster’s voice. 

His name, “this isn’t real,” he hears himself whisper.

“Billy!” it’s Steve’s voice. Steve. 

“This isn’t real,” his voice grows louder. 

The monster’s mouth opens, jagged teeth bared.

“This isn’t real!” this time a shout.

“Billy!”

The monster screams. Billy growls, “this isn’t real!” and the ground falls out from beneath him. He’s sinking. Falling backwards through liquid that burns his skin. 

His eyes force themselves open when the sound of water rushing near him infiltrates the heart beating in his ears. It aches to look through the fluids. His focus catches on Steve’s feet. Flailing above him like he’s trying to kick something off his ankles. Then the bat, the spikes swirling the dark liquid, a hiss of pain flows through the body of water. 

Billy’s body comes back to him quickly, he can swim. If there is one thing in this world that Billy Hargrove can do without fucking it up, it’s swimming.

He watches as the bat swings through the liquid again. Inky black vines spinning through the water and delicate droplets of red blood like spilled wine. Steve’s blood. 

He’s struggling to get to the surface, but he’s failing. He’s been submerged too long. His limbs weighted with exhaustion, an open gash on one foot from where he must have punctured it with a spike in the struggle. 

He watches as one lonely bubble rises from Steve’s lips. Forcing himself upward with both legs and both arms stroking through the fluid easily. Eyes burning, vision blurring, starting to blacken with the lack of oxygen and the heaviness of the liquid. His arm snakes around Steve’s chest. He knows the drill. He’s a lifeguard and they practice these saves multiple times. He’s never had to use them in real time, in real life, with someone who is real to him. Real to him in ways no one else has been in so long. Maybe not ever.

His legs are fierce with lactic acid as he kicks with the very last bit of power he has in his limbs to get to the surface. His head breaks through into clean, fresh air, gasping for breath as the world clears. As Rightside Up is right again and everything beneath is gone. A figment of their imaginations, a shared delusion of two minds that have been infiltrated by the Upside Down, or the Mind Flayer or whatever the hell the shit is that’s snuck into their brains and fucked them up so badly inside and out. 

He hears his own breath, his own gasping for air, and he doesn’t hear Steve’s. His arm tightens around his chest, surging towards shore with whatever bits of survival instinct he has left. The water is cold, muscles seizing, breath burning, feet aching. But Steve’s not breathing. And that’s enough to get him to shore. To drag Steve onto the rocky ground, somehow the bat still in his grip, fingers probably frozen there around it. 

Billy knows this too. The airway, the pulse, the head tilt, the heartbeat, the compressions, “come on Steve,” the breaths, covering his mouth and nose with his own, breathing, “come on Steve,” the compressions. The breathing, the counting, the pulse, the airway, the compressions. Billy knows these things, he’s trained in these things. He’s never had to do these things. He’s never even imagined doing these things one someone he cares for. He cares about. Someone he, “come on Steve,” needs, “come on,” he’s pressing too hard. He’s going to break his ribs, “come on,” it’s gasped and choked off. Liquid is gathering in the corners of his eyes, it’s from the lake, he tells himself it’s water from the lake, “come on Steve,” through clenched teeth, lowering himself to breathe for him again but he finally chokes. 

Billy rolls him to his side, letting all the water spew out of him.

“Fuck,” he hears himself whisper in shaky relief while Steve coughs and sputters until it sounds painful as hell. 

The hand that Billy has laid on his back, between the wings of his shoulders, thumps down a few times, then wipes in a small soothing circle before pulling back to thumb at his lip. Drawing his knees to his chest, arms encircling them. Remembering to breathe as he listens to Steve do the same. Finding some kind of pattern to it, some kind of rhythm and hearing Steve falling in synch beside him.

The lake is clear. Crystal clear. Light blue falling into a deep center. Perfectly round. Red pebbles surrounding the body of water. Small glacier sending a cool breeze across the layers of summer air. 

Billy focuses on the water at his toes. Toes that are raisined from swimming. Nail beds blue from the cold. There are goosebumps up the surface of his body. But his insides feel no different. 

His gaze shifts when he hears Steve move. Fingers slow, painful looking, to release the bat, “shit,” he grumbles, “did I just get eaten by a possessed lake?”

“Yeah.”

“K, just checking,” he flops to his back, one arm being flung over his face, he’s quiet for entirely too long for Billy’s comfort before his eyes both appear from behind his arm. Dark and deep, a magnet for Billy’s own gaze, “did we just make-out?”

Billy sucks his cheeks in against his teeth, ready to scoff, but Steve cuts him off, “how was I? I’m probably a way better kisser when I’m actually conscious. Don’t have to take advantage of me Hargrove,” nudging his leg with his elbow, “just gotta ask,” he jerks himself to seated, a few dry heaves with is head between his bent knees, “is there a place in this world that doesn’t go strange? Or is the Upside Down everywhere?” his hands slide through his hair, fingers lacing together, coming to rest on the back of his head. Cradling himself probably to wrap up some heat, or maybe for the comfort of an embrace. 

————————

The five miles back seem treacherous and wicked where on the way in they were dreamlike and calm. It’s mostly silent aside from the sounds of nature around them. There’s no whistling from Steve, there’s no gabbing and making noises to scare off grizzlies. Grizzlies aren’t a threat compared to the Upside Down.

He keeps looking over his shoulder at Steve, gauging his well-being. Eyes dull, watching the ground in front of him. Blood beaded at his sock line, dotting through the white and turning to pink. His hands are mostly looped though the straps of his pack. The bat always close at hand. 

His silence is more chilling than anything the Upside Down could throw at Billy. Billy’s seen the Upside Down. And Billy’s Rightside Up has never been exactly easy. There’s not much that can catch him off guard anymore, but Steve being defeated and exhausted down to the bone is a hard pill to swallow.

It’s your fault. It keeps echoing in his head. It’s always been his fault. It has always been Billy’s fault. 

He needs to get to California, he needs to get there fast and he needs to never look back at any part of his life in Hawkins.

————————

“Find a payphone tomorrow,” he mumbles, gathering kindling for a fire as Steve sits at the picnic table, staring vacantly off into the distance.

“You think it’s back?”

“Gotta be, right?”

He shrugs, “how many times can someone find the gate and open it?” his hand rises, pulls through his hair, exasperated through the exhaustion. 

“Don’t know,” the lighter sparks, the tinder burns. Billy sits back in the dirt, lights his cigarette, takes a long pull as his eyes drift to Steve’s blood stained sock, “gimme your foot.”

He looks down, like he’s forgotten it’s even wounded, like a foreign object instead of something he’s been walking on all day, “I’ll do it.”

“Like hell,” Billy snorts. He can leave the blank space blank. That he owes Steve. He owes him for months upon months of taking care of his body. Changing dressing on wounds, keeping his mind sharp by talking and reading, no matter how plodding that reading was it was still something. Human contact that was constant. Nearly constant, he had his Family Video job to go to five days a week. But then there was some kind of home nurse or something, some lady with soft hands and a lilting accent who checked in every so often. 

Steve looks at him skeptically, but he’s too tired to fight him on this, his foot rising and falling into Billy’s hands. He winces when Billy tugs his shoe off, peeling back the sock slowly to glimpse at the wound as it become exposed.

He hears Steve gasp, and freezes, “Shit Billy, you ever heard of ripping off the bandaid? There’s a reason for that.”

He snorts at him around his mouthful of cigarette, and does what he’s told. Ripping the sock back to a shout of pain. The gash is on the outside of his ankle, probably not deep enough to need stitches, but it definitely needs a good cleaning, “not only do you need hand-to-hand tips and pointers, you also need to learn how to swing a bat,” he ribs.

He’s sure Steve’s got a comeback in his head but it doesn’t make it’s way past his lips when his eyes land on Billy’s. His expression unreadable as he studies the small smile quirked on Billy’s lips. His skin is an odd color still, the heat of the fire will warm his core soon enough, he’s not coughing, stopped vomiting. Billy will have to listen for any labored breathing and check for fever later. Secondary drowning would be shitty way to die. It’s more likely to happen to children than adults, but a possessed lake can do anything. 

———————

Billy’s never made it a habit to sleep with a person. It’s too intimate. It’s too much like something he could love if he let himself. So he never does it. Never slept with any of the girls he banged, never allowed himself to want that with Phillip. 

Sleeping with Steve is just irritating. His teeth are chattering and he’s shivering, huddling against Billy’s back like he’ll miraculously find some body heat there. His breath is sending shivers down Billy’s spine, rising goosebumps.

He can’t allow himself to want.

And he won’t.

Instead, he pulls the sleeping bags tight around Steve, yanking it right up over his head so all that’s poking out is the very top of his mop of hair. Then he rolls back over to his side, his back towards Steve’s shivering mass. His toes slide across Billy’s calves, sending a cold shock through his system. Shit, if he feels cold even to Billy, then he’s pretty damn cold.

“Goddamnit Harrington, you’re annoying,” grunting through the roll, through cinching the blankets down tighter, through tucking his own head under the top, wrapping his arms around Steve’s frame that seems somehow delicate under his hands. Rubbing up and down his back, over top of the sweatshirt he’s shrugged into, “take this off, it’s not helping.”

“But it’s…”

“No. If your body isn’t keeping itself warm then the sweatshirt isn’t helping. Bare skin is the only way you’re going to regulate your temp.”

“What? How do you know that?”

“Lifeguard. Dummy.”

“Oh,” he struggles the shirt off without allowing too much heat loss through the opening in the bag, tucks it under his head and shivers.

“I’m not…”

“Going to give me homo germs, we already established that.”

“That’s not what I was going to say,” his arms are around him again, pulling him closer into whatever body heat he has to offer, “I’m not doing this ‘cause I like you,” he finishes.

“Oh. Good, ‘cause I didn’t take care of you for the last year ‘cause I like you either. so we’re even.”

Steve’s arms are folded up tight between their chests, his fingers moving in some kind of pattern where they’re clasped together. Billy adjusts his legs so that Steve’s cold feet are trapped between his calves. Billy’s hands moving up and down his bare back now, feeling his spine and ribs with every up and back down. Well, the guy knows how to take a beating and keep moving, so there’s that. He’s not as soft and delicate as he looks. 

His teeth chatter again, a full body shudder passing through, “why are the mountain nights so cold?” his whine is pretty pathetic, breath exiting in a warm burst against Billy’s neck where he’s tucked his head. 

Maybe it’s Fate’s way of forcing an embrace on two guys who probably need it. But he’s not about to say that, “‘cause it’s the mountains.”

“Hmm, never thought of that.”

“Shut up and go to sleep.”

“Don’t tell me what to do Hargrove,” too bad it sounds strained with sleep already. 

Billy stays awake for a long time after Steve’s breathing turns to sleep breathing. Just listening to him. Listening for any rasps or rattles, anything that could signify lungs that are loaded with fluid that wasn’t expelled earlier. He feels the heat of his forehead against his chin. Counts the rhythm of his breaths. 

Steve’s hands fall open when he falls into deeper sleep, his fingers warming up but still a cool shock of contact when they turn, landing palm down on Billy’s chest. Fingers fitting perfectly in the indentation of his scar. It sends a shudder through his core and a salty moisture springs to his eyes as he presses them closed, willing sleep to come. Willing sleep to come and willing himself not to want. He’s not allowed to want. And he certainly can’t want Steve.


	10. AirHeads And Slugs

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Steve

AirHeads And Slugs

Steve woke up this morning half-pinned under Billy. Sometimes he still expects violent outbursts. Tension rose and quickly gave way to how goddamn comfortable it was. How grounding it was. Someone who’s seen it, experienced it. Even more deeply than Steve has. But someone who knows. 

Yeah, he dated a girl a couple times last year. Between work and caring for Billy and still checking over his shoulder every five minutes for demo-dogs and Russians, he just didn’t have the time or the energy for it to turn into anything. And what would happen if it did? What would he say? ‘By the way, there’s this thing called the Upside Down and sometimes creatures from there cross over and try to eat us, and sometimes they accomplish that goal and even kill people or possess people and if you laugh at me right now I’ll probably just walk away and never see you again but if you don’t laugh at me right now I might be concerned for your mental state by actually believing this shit without seeing it for your own two eyes.’? 

So there’s Billy. A human blanket that isn’t very warm, but he’s warmer than Steve is. And two bodies worth of trapped heat in a sleeping bag is better than one. Since Steve can actually feel his feet again. 

With all the restless sleeping that Billy does, it seems a shame to try sneaking out from under him now when he’s sound asleep. His breathing is even, Steve can feel his ribs expanding and contracting against him. His hand is flat on Billy’s chest, right over the puncture wound scar. And he wonders, if it’s hard for Steve to think about telling someone about what he’s experienced, then what the hell would Billy say? And Billy’s covered in physical proof. Whatever the doctors bought into about him being punctured with debris from the mall caving in after catching on fire or whatever the coverup was, yeah it worked for medical professionals, so it’d work for a normal person too, but it would eventually feel bad to lie to a person you’re romantically interested in. 

Steve takes a deep breath, letting his gaze fall to Billy’s flesh that’s right in front of his face. The smooth lines of him, the dip of delicate skin around his collarbone, the curve of his Adam’s Apple. The stubble there. The way it all moves when he swallows. 

Swallows, clears his throat, and releases Steve. Rolling over quickly to give him his back. Well, pretending it never happened is probably less awkward than acknowledging that Billy’s a good cuddler. And their bodies just sort of fit together. 

Instead, Steve stretches, lets his arms loose from the bag and, “shit that’s cold,” quickly pulling them back in and doing what he did yesterday to seal some heat between them. Scootching his back tight against Billy’s.

They’re both wide awake now, but there is no way in hell Steve’s going out there to start a fire to cook breakfast over. There’s no way in hell he’s leaving this heated cocoon to do anything at all actually.

Billy’s quiet. It gives Steve nothing more to do than listen to him. The way it sounds when he breathes, the way it feels while his ribs expand and contract behind Steve. Bare skin on bare skin with a tiny layer of moisture starting to build between them. He wonders if maybe that’s why Billy likes other guys. ‘Cause they don’t care if there’s sweat and drool involved in all bed-sharing incidents. 

He opens his mouth to ask him, but instead, “how many guys you been with?” comes out.

Billy’s breath catches, Steve feels it against him, but his voice is uninterested and non-threatening when he retorts, “what’s it to ya?”

“Just curious.”

“Curiosity is the first step.”

“What?”

“Being bi-curious first. Then being guy-curious. You start thinkin’ about it. How good it’d feel to be with a guy. How good it’d feel to have big, calloused hands rough on your skin. How it’d feel to have strength in the grip on your hips. Stubble against your lips. A dick in…”

“What? That’s so not true. I just asked you how many guys you’ve been with. Out of curiosity you know. Small talk. Not because I’m interested in being with one.”

He huffs out an amused laugh.

“You’re fucking with me.”

A snort is the only response.

“Right? You’re totally fucking with me.”

“Insecure about your sexuality King Steve?”

“No. Just, no? I don’t know,” it’s just you, “I like girls,” and I want to run my fingers through your hair, “I’m getting up now.”

He snickers, “it was just gettin’ good,” half-muffled into the stringy bicep he’s resting his face on.

“Good for you and good for me are two totally different things.”

“Yeah,” sounds like he’s chewing on the inside of his cheek now, “always have been.”

“That’s what friends are for. Shit, it’s cold,” he yelps it, dances his way out of the tent, remembering too late that his ankle is a bloody mess, winces and nearly stumbles out onto his face when he puts pressure on it. Freeing himself of the tent while shrugging his clothes on, and trying to get away quickly from the conversation he inadvertently started and didn’t want to have. It’s a miracle he doesn’t fall straight into the fire pit that luckily still has a few coals in it from whenever it was that they went to bed last night. This morning, maybe. He’s well aware that ‘only you can prevent forest fires’, but the heat of the fire was enough to warm the tent a little more than just their bodies were and he was seriously on the verge of hypothermia if not already there, so yeah, they left it smoldering away last night. 

Steve rolls up a piece of newspaper and shoves it under one of the coals, piles up a few sticks and watches it ignite. Then he does the thing Billy showed him with building a mini tee pee over the flame. 

Humans aren’t so good at this whole evolution thing. Getting further and further away from nature, getting more and more interested in developing the land and raiding it of all it's resources instead of living alongside it. And this whole worldwide web thing that his dad is always talking about, and this guy named Bill Gates that’s going to take over the world. But what’s the point in technology when all it does is push humankind further and further away from the world that sustains it?

Steve doesn’t want to spend his life with robots. That’s weird. 

———————

The payphone they end up finding is at the gas station that Steve walks into, to get a shower key and get some of the possessed lake washed off him. When he comes inside, he hears an old lady gossiping in what she thinks is a hushed whisper, but old ladies aren’t really capable of hushed whispers unless you’re just having a normal conversation with them, then you can’t hear a damn word and you just sit there with a stupid smile on your face. She says something about the crops dying, the vines turning black on all her squash plants and continuing to grow anyway. The gas station attendant is hanging on her every word and nodding right along, telling her something about how old man Parsons was just in here yesterday with the very same story. The crops were just fine when he went to bed, but by morning they were black and spreading.

Steve’s spine straightens, he gulps for air, and drops the bag of AirHeads he had in his hand. They make a good shower snack. But he’s not showering here now. He turns on his heel, “I forgot my wallet,” he tells the attendant as he scampers off, hurrying across the parking lot, “we gotta go,” hollering at Billy, “we gotta get the fuck out of here.”

“Why?” he’s leaning against the Camaro, cig dangling in the corner of his lips, arms crossed over his chest loosely while he watches the pump. 

“It’s happening. It’s actually happening Billy. The Upside Down. We gotta go.”

“No,” he grunts, “damn it,” cursing when the pump kicks off, “I gotta go get change. And call Max. Actually you have to call Max,” he’s yanking the pump out of the tank, shoving it back into the cradle, and storming towards the store, “thought she’d take fifteen goddamn dollars, no, it’s gotta be full at $14.13,” grumbling to himself on the way across the lot.

“Why do I have to call Max? Buy that bag of AirHeads on the floor!”

———————

Steve’s waiting in the phone booth by the time Billy comes strolling out of the store three hours later, “what the hell took you so long?”  
“It was like five minutes, relax Mom,” he’s holding out the bag of AirHeads, “hear they named these after you.”

“Cute,” letting his face show all his lack of amusement, “real cute,” but he takes the bag, “why am I the one calling Max?” as he’s lifting the phone off the hook, shoving in a dime, and “I don’t know your number.”

“No shit,” crowding into Steve’s space to spin the numbers into the rotary dial. One thing Steve can get on board with, is a phone with a keypad. His dad just got one of those, he was talking about some kind of cordless future, the future is cordless apparently, “you can’t be you though,” Billy warns him as he enters the final digit and they watch the dial turn back. 

Listening to the fuzz in his ear, tearing open the bag of candy, “want one?”

“I’ve got enough AirHead in my life.”

“Funny. Why can’t I be me?”

“Because Ms Mayfield would think it was strange if a full grown male was calling for her daughter.”

“Is that why you can’t call?” the first ring vibrates through the line, “why do you call her Ms Mayfield, isn’t she married to your dad? Doesn’t that make her your stepmom or something?”

“No. I can’t call in case my dad answers. Just pretend to be one of the nerds. That’s not too different from what you are anyway. Ask for Max, and when she comes on, hand the phone over.”

Steve shrugs, “I don’t think anyone is home. It’s been three rings.”

“Give it a minute.”

“How long could it possibly take to get from one end of a trailer to another?”

Now Billy’s ‘I am not amused’ face appears and Steve laughs, “it’s slugs, by the way,” he mumbles.

“What is?”

“There are slugs. From the Upside Down.”

“Did you really just go in there and chat it up with an old…”

“Hargrove residence,” comes a cracked voice across the phone line.

“Oh shit, I mean, uh,” he clears his throat, does his best impression of Dustin’s voice, “I mean is Max home?”

“May I ask who’s calling?”

“Dustin Henderson,” his eyes land on Billy’s. And nearly fall in. They’re bright, sparked with amusement, the corner of his lips risen in a smirk.

“May I ask why you’re calling, Dustin?”

Oh Jesus, one of those moms. Overbearing and nosy. Good thing he has practice with those moms from his entire high school career of bagging chicks, “sure you may Mrs Hargrove,” Billy rolls his eyes at that, “I’m calling because the whole group of us is getting together this weekend at my house. My mom will be home the whole time. We’ll be playing board games and enjoying some Hot Pockets and Cokes.”

“That sounds lovely dear. I’ll just go get her from her bedroom. One moment please.”

“Thank you ma’am,” he covers the speaker with his hand and tells Billy, “your stepmom’s a real nice lady Billy.”

His middle finger responds for him, and he motions for Steve to hand the phone over.

“She’s not on the line yet, just take a chill pill.”

He doesn’t take a chill pill. Instead he wrestles the phone out of Steve’s grip, smacks him upside the head playfully and shoves him out of the phone booth. 

“Such a charmer,” he grumbles as his sneakers slide on gravel, grabbing a hold of Billy’s arm to steady himself.

“Max?” it’s a three letter word, but it’s packed with a serious punch full of relief and maybe homesickness. Homesickness? No way. Not Billy. He hates his home. With good reason as far as Steve can tell, “don’t say my name,” he avers into the phone, “don’t let your mom know it’s me,” his lip trembles at that. What the hell is happening right now? When he realizes Steve is still holding his arm, he shrugs him off, turns his face away and slams the folding door shut in his face.

“Bastard,” Steve mumbles to himself, backing up towards the Camaro. Then deciding a shower at a gas station is better than no shower after all, and heads towards the store again.

“Run out of AirHeads already?” the woman wonders as soon as he walks in.

“No, I…” snoopy lady must have been watching him and Billy out there, “I’m back to use the shower. If I may.”

She narrows her eyes at him, studies his face for way too long so he grins. Steve’s charming. Usually. She just rolls her eyes and hands him the key that’s attached to a fly swatter, “one person at a time.”

“Sure thing,” he puts his hand out to accept the fly swatter but she doesn’t deposit it right away.

“I mean it.”

“Yeah okay. Cross my heart.”

She sets it in his palm and he wonders if she realizes they’d save water if they allowed two persons at a time in the shower. Wait, did she mean him and Billy? 

Wouldn’t be the first time they’ve showered together. 

He’s appraising the bruising that’s still lingering around his eye from the bar fight, when the door gets rapped on. Hard, “open up,” Billy demands.

“She said one at a time.”

“I don’t give a shit.”

Steve shrugs to himself, he doesn’t give a shit either, “it’d be a smaller water bill anyway.”

“What?”

“The one person at a time thing, it’d be…”

“Shut up. Max said there’s been nothing in Hawkins. She’s gonna call that freaky girl with the mind invasion shit,” he’s tugging off his wife-beater, going for his belt, “and see if she’s felt anything or whatever.”

“Think there’s like, another gate or something?”

“I don’t know,” he takes his jeans and underwear off in the same swoop, toes his boots off along with the rest of his pants when they get down to his ankles. He leaves the jewelry on and the cig lit in the corner of his mouth. 

“Probably can’t smoke in here.”

“Smoke wherever I want,” as he reaches over to turn the faucet. 

Mostly dead all year, he’s still Billy Hargrove. Steve shrugs, “should’ve bought a razor.”

A grunt, muffled by the sound of water splattering on his skin and the tug of the curtain, “your baby face is not worth shaving.”

He’s mostly right, “we’re probably going to get kicked out of here.”

“Stop wasting fucking time then.”

“Does sharing clothes, a bed, and a shower make us…”

“I can smell your armpits from here pretty boy.”

Leaning down to get a whiff of himself, “holy shit, that’s ripe,” and it is enough to get his clothes the rest of the way off and step into the shower with Billy. As long as they don’t touch each other, it’ll be no different than the locker room, “holy shit that feels good,” when the warm water hits him, “ouch, motherfucker,” as it hits the gash in his ankle.

Billy’s face snaps in his direction, question in his eyebrows, “let me see that thing.”

“What? My dick, ‘cause…”

“Your ankle, you nitwit.”

“Oh yeah, that. That’s fine, it’s just,” and Billy’s bending over and gripping his ankle to bring it off the ground. And Steve has to put his palms down on Billy’s hunched shoulders to balance himself. So much for the not touching each other.

Unraveling the bandaging job he did last night, that probably should have been unraveled and cleaned out thoroughly this morning, but oh well. They’re here now and it’s probably noon. So close enough. 

“It’s black.”

“Yeah, well sometimes scabs get,” his eyes drift over Billy’s gold-toned flesh, the way the water is splattering off his every curve of muscle and knob of his spine, before they drop to his own ankle, “that is black,” his eyes close as his imagination takes off, “If it starts moving, just cut off my leg, I swear, if there’s something alive and it’s going to start squirming up my leg or something. Look, I’m not a complete sissy or anything, but I’m not like El, I can’t just mind suck some creature out of my leg with my hand and I’m a big enough sissy that I’ll need some kind of anesthetic or something and if I’m on the table when they pull out a… What the fuck Billy!” there’s a sharp jolt of pain that burns through his ankle and into the meat underneath, he’s certain right into his bone.

“It’s not infected.”

“Oh good, gee thanks for what?” his eyes have opened and locked onto the top of Billy’s head where the water is playing with his curly tendrils, “for poking a dirty finger into it to check?”

“No, asshole,” he sets his foot down, maneuvers himself to standing, reaches past the shower curtain, “you said to rip the bandaid off the other night. So I cut the scab off today to get a better look at it. Besides, if it’s black scab then you’ve got dirt in it and you need to get rid of it. A shower and a bar of soap are the best way to do that,” suddenly there’s a bar of soap in Billy’s hand and he’s running it up his own body with both hands before he passes it to Steve, keeps rubbing his hands over his flesh to lather up.

Steve has to take a deep breath, bites down hard on his tongue on the joke about dropping the soap that’s sitting right there. He might have reached his limit of homoerotic jokes for he day and he doesn’t really feel like getting in another fist fight with Billy Hargrove. Especially in a shower in a gas station. He drags his eyes away from Billy when his hands start working south to clean his undercarriage. And why the hell he has to drag his eyes away is beyond him. It should be so much easier to look away from Billy’s body than it actually is.

He plants his back solidly against the wall as he brings his ankle up to rest on his other knee, a half-squat in a shower with Billy Hargrove in a gas station washroom. This is about as compromising a position as Steve has ever been in. But he feels very secure in it somehow. And it’s so much easier to wash your own wound than to have someone else do it. When you already know what kind pain is coming and where exactly it’s coming from because of the position of your hand, what parts of it are being relayed from your touch to your brain to your nerve endings. Or however that all works. 

“The good news is, there’s nothing moving,” he announces when he’s got it scrubbed as much as he can stand, moving closer to the spray to get it rinsed as Billy steps to the side of the shower that’s mostly water free, “bad news is, I have no towels, and no first aid shit.”

Billy rolls his eyes, “how is it possible that you are such an annoying mother hen all the damn time, but you can’t manage to get yourself prepared for something as simple as a shower?”

“You didn’t prepare either,” he points out, taking the chance to soap himself up, then wondering, “was this soap in here already?” holding it away from himself to inspect it for foreign bodies.

“Yeah,” Billy shrugs, stepping out onto the tile with bare feet, “I’m drying off with your shirt.”

The soap might as well be a dead animal for the way he’s stuck holding it out, staring at it.

“It’s self cleaning. It’s soap.”

Steve shrugs to himself. He’s right, “why my shirt?” it echoes into the emptiness of the bathroom as the door swings shut behind Billy. How did he get those tight jeans on that quickly while still damp?


	11. Mangled Dreams

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Billy

Mangled Dreams

Billy lights a cig, makes himself comfortable in the driver’s seat and waits for it. He doesn’t have to wait long. Steve’s skinny white ass running across the parking lot with a pissed off expression, hands cupping his junk, bare foot and skittering across the hot blacktop, cursing Billy the entire way. Billy revs the engine and waits until Steve releases his junk with one hand to reach for the door handle before he inches forwards.

“Not funny Hargrove,” as he shuffles closer again. And reaches for the handle. Billy inches forward.

He can’t stifle the laugh, watching Steve’s expression go from angry to annoyed to a good-natured smile, conceding the victory to Billy, “just let me in asshole.” with a stifled laugh.

The gas station attendant is standing in the doorway getting her fill of Steve’s naked ass, arms raised in the air in mock annoyance. It’s kinda impossible to be pissed off when Steve’s naked. Billy smirks, pushing the door the rest of the way open when he finally rolls to a halt to let the dipshit into the car, “don’t get my seat wet,” grumbling.

He gets a middle-finger salute in response as his still-dripping wet body slides into the seat, “you realize that she could totally call the cops on us and I’d get an indecent exposure.”

“Yeah. But it’s just us here King Steve. Your royal junk ain’t worth callin’ the cops for,” though he restrains himself from laying rubber on the way out of the lot, just in case the attendant lady has reached her patience limit for teen boy bullshit for one day.

———————

“Get your foot off my dash,” growling out of the corner of his mouth.

“It should be elevated. Deal with it,” Steve responds. They’re heading West. Still. That’s the plan. West to the ocean. Where the world is round and the sky is infinite. Where the Upside Down doesn’t reach and if it does, well, then Billy’s okay with dying this time. Returning to the ocean and setting sail in a cardboard boat. There’s just two things he’s gotta find first. 

Steve doesn’t question it, doesn’t seem to care what direction they’re heading. 

———————

The sun is splashing reds and oranges into the darkening sky when they pull off into a rest stop in the middle of nowhere southern Montana.

“We could do Yellowstone tomorrow,” Steve stretches the kinks out of his back, starts sauntering towards the toilets, “might be the only place on Earth that’s weirder than the Upside Down.”

Billy was starting to think it was time to just get there, rush this road trip along. He takes a drag of his smoke, watches the sun’s dying display of light, trails Steve across the grass. The easiness of his gate, even with the tenderness on his wounded ankle. He’s whistling, Billy can hear it cresting across the wafts of air, green breeze and gas station soap lingering in his nostrils before he exhales the smoke cloud. 

——————

His eyes drift to Steve immediately when he’s walking across the grass towards him again. The last drops of sun clinging to his back, his front shadowed, the sound of his whistling lazily floating across the distance between them. He’s walking like a normal person when he suddenly decides to dip into a lunge. And then does walking lunges for the rest of the way across the lawn.

“The hell are you doin’?” butt firmly planted on the hood.

He shrugs, rolling his shoulders, lowering into a squat, “staying in running-from-demo-dogs shape.”

Billy rolls his eyes, but the King does have a point, “alright, how many you got?” he slips off the hood and takes stance across from Steve.

“Depends,” as he squats back down, “how many you got?”

“Not the one with the fucked ankle,” he reminds him, arcing a pointed eyebrow to the layer of bandaging that’s peeking above his white sock.

“Just the one with the impaled chest,” giving his own pointed look towards Billy’s chest.

Snorting something mostly unintelligible and distracting the conversation by taking another drag while he falls into rhythm with Steve’s exercise plan, “I draw the line at Jane Fonda.”

“More of a Richard Simmons kind of guy? Number one, like yourself. Number two, you have to eat healthy. And number three, you’ve got to squeeze your buns,” he grins a challenge at Billy, “squeeze your buns Hargrove,” with a twinkle in his eye that can’t be denied even in the falling darkness.

———————

“Sweatin’ to the Oldies feels good, huh?” Steve elbows him when they finally stop moving and lie down in the grass, letting their bodies calm after whatever the hell kind of a workout that was.

“I prefer lifting weights.”

“Well,” his hand sweeps out in front of their faces. Between them and the endless stars in the night, “use what you have. And squeeze your buns,” there’s a smile in his voice that Billy doesn’t have to look at to see.

“How do you even have that shit memorized?”

“My mom’s been obsessed with workout videos since my dad set up the VHS.”

So King Steve’s quality bonding time with his mom was spent doing work out tapes. Billy didn’t have much when he was a kid, but he had his mom. And he had the ocean. It sounds like it mostly sucks to be rich, “you have a nanny or somethin’?” when he doesn’t respond right away, Billy clarifies, “that lady with the accent. The one that was always around when you weren’t.”

“Yeah,” he doesn’t give him more than that, so Billy drops it. He can figure it out without asking, that it probably sucks to be mothered by someone who isn’t your mother. He was at least mostly grown by the time Ms Mayfield tried to do it to him. Steve’s mom probably gave up on him the day he was born. Handed him over to the lady with the accent for her to do the hugging and shit. 

———————

“One,” he finally answers when he’s tucked into the backseat, Steve in the passenger seat, sprawled back so it’s resting against Billy’s knees. He can barely see him in the darkness, just a silhouette in the silvery fingers of moon dragging their way through the windows.

“Hmm?”

“That question you asked me. How many guys I been with. One. Well, one that mattered anyway.”

It takes a moment, a breath, a shuddered breath, but Steve’s kind of an okay guy under all that preppy boy attitude and big hair, “is that, uh,” he clears his throat, turns his head and his eyes might as well reach out and caress Billy’s cheek for the acceptance in them, “is that why you’re heading back to California?”

“Yeah.”

His head bobs in a half nod, lips pursed while he watches Billy, waiting for more words, or more explanation, but he doesn’t really have more. Not right now.

“K,” Steve settles on, tilts his head back to looking at the roof. It’s just that easy with Steve. 

———————

The sleep is fitful, mangled with dreams of things gone by, dreams of things never happened, and dreams of things Billy’s afraid are still to come.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Number one, like yourself. Number two, you have to eat healthy. And number three, you’ve got to squeeze your buns." ~ Richard Simmons


	12. Obsession And Cigarrettes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Steve

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Non-graphic kissing between Steve and a couple girls - but it's just a means to an end, my friends, he's getting closer to realizing his feelings for Billy. (Closer, but not there yet...)

Obsession And Cigarrettes 

“Do you ever think about what animals think of us?” Steve tips his head back against the headrest, they’ve stopped. They’ve stopped moving because the whole row of cars in front of them has stopped moving because there are buffalo beside the road. And yeah, they look way bigger when they’re up close than they did in the valley past the Yellow Mounds. 

Billy snorts something in response. Out of the corner of his eye, Steve can see that the tip of his thumb is resting in between his teeth, like he has to bite down on it every once in awhile just to remind himself what pain feels like or something.

“Bison are huge. And they’re just standing in the field eating their lunch. And there’s like twenty cars here, blocking the road, just ‘cause some old lady wants to take a photograph of one of them. Like they’re movie stars or something. Meanwhile, the buffalo is like ‘I’m eating here, just let me be’.”

“I don’t think their brains work that way,” his elbow is resting on the ledge of the open window, his eyes scanning the field on Steve’s side. 

“Maybe they do though. And if they were stupid, wouldn’t it be easier for the Mind Flayer to infiltrate a buffalo’s head and do a lot more damage than he could with a human?”

Billy shrugs, his hand dropping away from his mouth and resting on the rim of the steering wheel. He has no desire to admit that Steve is probably right, he can tell by the way he’s chewing on the inside of his cheek, trying to come up with some reason the Mind Flayer would never control an animal even if they are more physically powerful than any human could ever be. 

“Plus, a possessed buffalo would be, like, totally rad.”

“Totally rad?”

“In a really messed up way, but yeah.”

Billy’s got an expression on his face, like he can’t get this traffic jam cleared up fast enough to get this conversation behind them, or maybe he’s debating kicking Steve out while they’re stopped. 

Steve shrugs, pops a piece of AirHead in his mouth and taps the dash to the rhythm of AC/DC. 

————————

“I told you Yellowstone was weird,” he elbows Billy when they come to a halt on the boardwalk right next to some red and yellow bubbling cauldron thingy. It’s hot.

“You didn’t tell me it stinks.”

“Yellowstone stinks.”

“Thanks for the head’s up.”

“Any time,” Steve turns to keep walking, makes it a few steps before he realizes that Billy hasn’t moved yet. He sighs, heads back over and stands beside him. His face is empty of expression, his ocean soaked eyes locked into the puddle of colors that have no business existing in nature the way they do. The inside of the puddles is a dark blue, lightening to green towards the edge and then brightening to yellow, orange, and red like a reverse rainbow. Or maybe it’s not in reverse, maybe it just depends on how a person looks at it.

Steve’s eyes follow Billy’s gaze and he finds the exact spot in the puddle that is identical in shade to Billy’s irises. They catch there and linger. Leaning closer he can feel the heat rising off the liquid and caressing his face. He can see his own reflection in the clear spots that lack bubbles and steam. He watches is face morph in the transparent mirror, drags his focus away from it to look at the side of Billy’s face. The way the sun tangles with his hair and the pool of reverse rainbow lights the clear lens of his eyes. 

Feeling Steve’s eyes on him, his glare darts in Steve’s direction and he wonders what exactly does Billy see now when he looks at himself. 

“None of that shit was your fault, you know?”

He chews on the inside of his cheek, like he’s mulling it over, but doesn’t respond. He scans Steve’s face, looking for some kind of lie in his statement. He must not find one, but he’s not going to talk about it either. Instead a smirk lifts the corner of his mouth, “sure Pretty Boy. What’s next in this shithole?”

————————

“We just stood here for a half hour,” the cigarette bobs when he talks, “waiting for some hole in the ground to throw water into the air?”  
“Yep,” Steve rocks back on his heels, watches the last of the water recede into the ground, “let’s go eat.”

Billy snorts something at him and he chooses to ignore it, he thinks Dustin would probably think this was the coolest place in the world.

————————

Billy’s plate is actually empty. Even the crumbs are gone. That’s the first time Steve’s seen him eat that much. And he’s trying not to stare or make him feel weird about actually eating like a normal teenager. 

A normal teenager. Leaning off his butt to grip his wallet from his back pocket, checking his ID like he doesn’t know his birthdate instead of not knowing today’s date, but either way confirmation is confirmation, “guess who’s not a teenager anymore?”

Billy looks like he regrets eating everything on his plate, his eyes narrow at Steve, “you?”

“Yep,” and since no one ever checks IDs with drink orders when the table is already full of food, he orders another round.

“This is how you spent your twentieth birthday?” Billy asks, watching absently when the waiter hustles back towards the bar for a new round of beers. This time with shots.

He wonders briefly if Billy is watching the guy because he’s attracted to him. A prickle of twisted jealousy worms it’s way up his spine and he ignores it, “I guess so. But it’s not over yet,” reminding him with a grin.

————————

He’s still thinking clearly enough around midnight that he knows Billy told him goodnight, he was heading to the room. And he looked fine. Maybe a little buzzed and mildly queasy but overall just fine. So Steve kept mucking up the attention of the girls that had made their way over to the two of them at some point after the restaurant closed and they were sitting at the bar. He thought they’d flocked over for Billy, and Steve wondered how painful it would be to play the part. To act like he’s into girls. To keep his secret safe.

These girls aren’t so bad. They’re not smart like Nancy. And they’re not awesome like Robin. But they’re also not like Carol. So on the scale of girls Steve would sleep with if given the opportunity, they’re like a very likely seven. 

A very likely seven that turns into something more by the time the bar closes. And they proposition him for a threesome. But their room is off limits. Steve figures Billy is probably asleep by now. And maybe they’d be okay with a bathroom affair. Or maybe Billy would give in to some kind of guy code for needing to get laid to seal his twentieth birthday and send his teen years off on a good note. Or just holy shit, he’s never been propositioned for a threesome before and he’s not even sure how to keep them both busy at the same time and he wonders if the mechanics of it would leave someone out of the action at all times and maybe he’ll be the one left out and that might be just fine. But he’s not actually sure how long he could maintain interest in two girls if neither of them was touching him, shouldn’t that be his most awesome wet dream? Two girls. Girl on girl. Isn’t that supposed to be his number one fantasy? Why isn’t it doing anything for him?

He pushes that thought to the back of his mind, opens the door to their room and tumbles inside with both girls’ hands on him and mouths everywhere. He can feel a mouth, hot and wet on his neck and the other girl has backed off for long enough to get through the door. His eyes are open and he doesn’t let himself think too hard on what that means, what it means that his eyes are scanning the room for Billy instead of looking at the girls he’s about to sleep with. His eyes are scanning the room for Billy and they catch him immediately when the dimly lit figure of him jolts off the bed with a start, his every muscle line sleek in the yellow glow from the hallway lights still flooding the entry way. Dimming by the time the rays reach across the beds and over to the corner where Billy’s crouched figure is huddled into the corner of the room now. His arms wrapping around his legs, drawn to his chest, hands on the back of his head to protect it from incoming blows.

Shit. 

“Uh,” Steve clears his throat, disengages all physical contact with the girls, has a sinking sensation in his stomach when he realizes his dick has not had any interest in this anyway, “maybe,” he glides around the one in front, so he’s between them and Billy, then herds them back through the door they just opened, “thanks for the fun,” sweeping them through the open door, “maybe we’ll catch up tomorrow night,” as he lets it shut in their faces. 

He can hear one of them shouting insults through the closed door, and maybe he deserves them. But he’s still pretty buzzed and he can blame his lack of hard-on on the alcohol if he tries hard enough. 

He flops onto the bed nearest the door with a heavy sigh. The room spins, so he sits back up, “woah,” standing when he remembers why he sent the girls away in the first place. Peering over the edge of the next bed where Billy’s shadow form is still hunched in the corner, shaking visibly even in his self administered embrace, “I, um,” he steps around the edge of the bed, unintentionally blocking Billy’s exit, “sorry. That was,” scratching the back of his head, then running his hands through his hair, “I should have said something earlier I guess. Like a head’s up, you know, might try to bring a girl home. Send my teen years off with a bang. Literally.”

Billy doesn’t respond, but the sound of Steve’s voice must be registering in his head. He doesn’t raise his face, at least his hands move away from his protective hold, even if his face stays buried between his knees.

Steve takes a deep breath, drops to his butt on the floor between the bed and wall, facing Billy. Not close enough to touch, even if he reached out. He probably feels like an idiot for startling like that. And he doesn’t want to talk about it. Neither does Steve. But maybe it’d help. Or maybe it wouldn’t. He has no idea. Maybe he should be on the other side of the bed so they don’t even have the option to look at each other. 

He uses the bunched blankets to give himself a boost to his feet, tucks and rolls across the bed and lands on the floor with very little grace. And an, “oomf,” but now he can’t see Billy. That’s probably good. Maybe for both of them at this point, “you ever um, like, have mission failure when you wanna launch your rocket?”

It takes a minute, long enough that Steve almost repeats himself with a different code, or maybe Billy didn’t hear him at all. He’s probably got blood rushing in his ears and panic starting to recede maybe at this point but still bubbling there under the surface. Sleeping in a hotel room that’s actually pretty damn nice, and all of a sudden the door bursts open, guy probably thought it was the Upside Down coming for him, or maybe his dad or something. And what the fuck is that guy, fuck that guy, gets off on leaving scars all over his son’s body ‘cause he’s gay or something? Is that all it’s about? Cig burns and belt lashings for enjoying the company of other men? 

Billy finally grunts. Just when Steve’s still mostly drunk head was starting to forget he was even over there, or what he was talking to him about, he answers, “sometimes.”

“With girls, right?”

“Yeah,” it’s pained, but he’s apparently resigned himself to answering questions. 

“Ever happen from drinking too much?” Steve pops his jeans open peering down to make sure he even still has a dick, for how uninterested it was at the prospect of being naked with two women, maybe it’s gone. Maybe the possessed lake took it. No, he’s seen it since then. Oh there it is, all soft and pathetic. Wow, that’s just, a huge disappointment right there, is what that is, “C’mon Hargrove don’t leave me hangin’ here, this is awkward as fuck, but I kinda don’t want to be the only guy who… or is it like I’m twenty now so my dick won’t be as responsive as it was in my teens? Does it happen that fast?”

Billy snorts. Maybe the wall would be a better conversationalist than Billy. Steve sighs, lets his waistband fall back into place, jeans, those have to go, as his head falls back against the chincy dresser thing behind him, he slides them off, shimmying them down to his knees and giving up there, “think there’ll be a time when jeans aren’t so tight?”

There’s silence for long enough that he closes his eyes, takes a second to watch the inside of his lids spin, opens to a slightly less spinning ceiling, ears rushing but not hard enough to cover the sound of Billy’s voice, “it’s my fault anyway,” half muffled, probably still against his knees.

Shit, that could be true. The way Steve’s been obsessing over Billy’s well-being, he’s probably just preoccupied with him and couldn’t focus on the girls or something. Though that’s not really Billy’s fault is it? He opens his mouth to tell him so, but he’s interrupted with a heavy sigh, “what the hell kind of loser jumps out of bed and hides in the corner anyway?” it’s bitter and angry twisted into pain that won’t ever ebb, “over something as stupid as the door opening.”

“I guess someone who…”

“Forget it Harrington,” he grumbles, the sound of his body shifting makes Steve crane his neck to get a view of him getting off the floor. The ugly yellow hues of the hotel bathroom’s light that’s haloing him aren’t so ugly when it’s clinging to the curves of sinew, muscle, and flesh. And isn’t the just the betrayal of the century when Steve’s dick decides to stir now? Bastard. Too late to the game. 

“You’re not a loser,” bringing this knees towards his body and willing his attention towards all things nonsexual. 

A snort is the only response, the sound of the sheets and blankets moving, but all Steve can look at is the way he moves. The way he’s starting to look more steady on his feet, like his body is reclaiming itself. Maybe it was the possessed lake, maybe that was what it took to get his strength to rise back to the surface. Maybe it was saving Steve’s life and leaving the Upside Down behind, this time without having to die to do it, but did they really leave it behind? 

Billy’s sleek and lithe. He’s lean, powerful and fucking gorgeous. Well, gorgeous isn’t helpful, that’s the liquor talking. Or maybe the input of his dick, that’s late to the party. Damn it. Steve lets his head fall back against the wooden thing behind him once more, a thunk that Billy ignores. 

Well, hopefully Billy is ready to ignore the fact that Steve’s about to service himself in the bathroom before he goes to bed. Stupid dick.

————————

He recognizes the moan that exits his lips immediately when he wakes. Broad daylight filtering in through the heavy curtains where they’re parted in the center. Just enough to let light in without splitting his bed in half. Probably Billy’s hint that it’s time to get the hell up and get on the road. 

The moan is one of those things that only happens after way too much alcohol, “my head,” he tells the pillow more so than the room. The room that he assumes Billy is in somewhere. He can smell him. Obsession and cigarettes. That, strangely enough, does nothing for his hangover, another moan escapes and he pulls the spare pillow over his head, “I’m not done sleeping.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This thing is starting to turn into a beast, but it's still a WIP in that I have no idea how I want to end it yet. So I'll hand out a few more chapters today to get some comments generated that might be able to give me inspiration for finishing this thing out, so please keep chatting away, I can't tell you how much I appreciate comments during a WIP :)


	13. Chasing After Things That Leave You

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Billy

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for another layer of implied child abuse.

Chasing After Things That Leave You

Billy sits back in the hotel room chair, plopping his feet up on the table, ankles crossed. He opened the curtain awhile ago, hoping it would wake Steve. He’s already gone down to get breakfast, and the milk for his cornflakes is going to get warm if it sits here much longer. 

Billy’s eyes drift over his hand that’s resting on the pillow over top of his head where’s he’s tugged it to cover his face. He wonders briefly how it would feel to have those hands on his flesh. And when he leans back, his eyes close, willing away the want coiled in his belly for the thing he’ll never have even it’s right in front of him. Instead his mind shuffles through all the reasons he’s headed back to California.

His smile. Bright, white and carefree. His hands. Warm, big, solid and calloused. His laugh. Melodic. Deep and throaty. His lips. The heat in his kisses. And the feeling he left in Billy’s chest that even Neil couldn’t extinguish with his hatred and violence.

He takes a deep breath. Letting the images slide through his mind like a reel of an old movie. Some of them yellowed at the edges. Some of them black and white. Some of them in bright technicolor. 

His eyes dart open when he hears rustling and another moan from under the covers, “mornin’ sunshine.”

“Please tell me it’s only possible to turn twenty once.”

He snorts out a laugh, gets to his feet, taps the mounded lump under the hotel bedspread that he knows is Steve’s unwounded ankle, “get moving. We’ve got ten hours to Reno.”

“Reno? I thought we were,” his voice drifts away.

“Thought what Pretty Boy?” it’s gruff, Billy knows what it costs to let someone in. He’s let Steve in far enough. And nothing good could ever come of letting him in any further, “get to Reno, stay there a night. Got someone I gotta find there. Then it’ll be a few more hours on the road to San Francisco and you’ll be rid of me forever Harrington,” he moves towards the door as he’s speaking, throwing the words over his shoulder towards the form under the covers, “eat, get showered and get dressed, I’ll wait.”

————————

The smoke tastes stale. The bile in his stomach threatening to rise, sitting on the hood of the Camaro. His eyes trailing through the crowd. The girls from last night, Steve’s girls, exit the building in a group of broads probably out on their parents’ dime for a summer vacation. One of them glances his way casually, turning bitter when her eyes linger and recognize him. Her arm tangles through the arm of the girl beside her, eyes narrowing as she whispers something to her, making certain not to break eye contact with Billy as he brings the smoke to his lips. 

He feels his lip lift into a sneer. He knows what he is to them. That freak that spooked when they came in the room looking to have a little fun. That freak that fucked up their plans to get laid. 

Thing is, Billy doesn’t give a shit what he is to them. He sets the cig in the corner of his mouth, lifts his hand in a wave and screws on his best cocky smile. Billy might not like girls, but he knows how to make them want. He knows how to make them want his body. And he knows how to make himself look like the threat that he is. They can think he’s a freak all they want. But they need to know he’s a freak for a good goddamn reason. One that’ll terrify the piss out of them without even seeing it for themselves. Billy knows how to make his demons rise to the surface, just enough to wear them like a suit of armor and a dented shield against the world. 

The sneer breaks when he catches sight of Steve making his way hurriedly through the door, must of thought Billy was full of it when he said he’d wait. He’s disheveled like he didn’t take the time to primp himself for the day, hair still wet from the shower, shoes untied. 

“How you gonna run from the Upside Down with your laces fallin’ all over the place?” he wonders when he’s close enough to hear him.

The girls are whispering back and forth to each other. And Billy’s not going to point them out to Steve. Knowing now that he’s their gossip target instead of Billy and he doesn’t need that shit either. Some stupid nameless random chicks to make him feel like shit for launch failure. 

Steve doesn’t respond, doesn’t slow, darts into the passenger side and stills. Watching Billy though the windshield as he moves, slowly, calculated. There’s still an audience, even if Steve never saw them, they’re still there. 

He fights every stupid urge he has in his body. To just stay. To just slow this back down. To just be here. And enjoy this. To let himself have a friendship. 

He’s not stupid. He knows Steve is into girls. He knows Steve has a future in a suit and an office. No matter what his dad is punishing him for by withholding that for now, he’ll get over it. Steve’s his only kid. His pride in his family name will get his stupid head out of his ass soon enough and he’ll be calling Steve back to go to college and get a move on with his future. This road trip was just about getting out of Hawkins for Steve. For a summer. For a chance to see some of the world, even if it’s so much bigger than this, but for something outside of his tiny corner of the world. And then he’ll go back. That was always the plan. It never mattered what happened between them. Their tenuous friendship, or maybe the moment of truce in their enemy act. 

Billy’s not stupid. Not really. Not when it comes to knowing what he’s worth. And he certainly isn’t worth much. Only people who ever thought he was, those are people he’s about to find. And maybe they’ll remember when they see him, they’ll remember that he’s nothing more than pain and a dark mark on their lives. But at least then he’ll know. 

————————

The drive is strained and silent. Steve won’t look his way. Like he somehow wronged him. 

It’s better this way. 

The scenery whirring past the windows is less. It’s less when there’s no running commentary coming from beside him in the car. 

He might as well be alone with her. With the purr of her engine on the miles of blacktop. With the wind flowing through the open window and the radio cranked up. He might as well be alone with her. Just like he likes it.

————————

“So, uh,” Steve finally speaks, shades over his eyes, face aimed out his own window, as he picks at the drive-through grease meal on his lap, “who’s in Reno?”

“Doesn’t matter.”

Now his head snaps towards Billy. His look is incredulous and Billy waits for it. Waits for some kind of anger. He keeps his eyes trained on Steve’s eyes through his shades. He waits for a speech about how much Billy owes him, how he’s spent time and money and effort on him. How he’d’ve been left to rot in some institution for the duration of his time as a vegetable if he’d have left him there. How he'd still be rehabbing in some no-name state run facility if Steve hadn’t taken him in and kept him alive. How he’d be begging his father for forgiveness and mercy, just to let him live with him again. 

Something sinks deep in his gut when Steve’s face falls instead. A sadness creaping in around the set of his mouth, a rejection that cuts him so much deeper than Billy ever would have imagined. But it’s better now. It’s better to stop this shit now. Before it gets into either of their heads deeper than it already has. Whatever this is, this forced friendship. Billy will pay Steve back someday. If it takes him the rest of his life to pay his debt, he’ll do it, but he won’t allow Steve to care. People who care about Billy get hurt. Steve is going back to Hawkins when this road trip is over. This little detour, this scenic route he’s taken just to end up back where he started. 

Billy will always just be a blip on Steve’s radar. And it needs to stay that way. 

————————

He turns into the trailer park just East of Reno. The place is familiar as it is foreign. And he waits for a verbal jab. Some kind of trailer park joke. There’s nothing.

Steve looks like Billy might as well have reached out and smacked him. Repeatedly. Sitting slouched in his seat, elbow propped on the window, chin in hand. He’s gotta be stiff by now from sitting like that all damn day. 

Billy chews on the inside of his cheek as he navigates his way down the side roads. It’s been a long time. And he’s only ever been a passenger. But these are roads he’ll never forget. 

When it got real bad. When Dad was drinking for days on end without any pause. When Billy’s whole body was ready to shatter at the feel of his fist one more time on bone. That’s when Mom would pack him up. She’d threaten leaving and she’d break some dishes on the kitchen floor. She’d leave broken shards of her life behind and take Billy with her. As Dad stayed where he was, passed out in his recliner. An old rust-red thing. His lowball glass in one hand, a medal from his time in ‘Nam in the other. Head lolled to the side and eyes bleary as he’d blink at her. Without any expression. Knowing her threats were false. That he’d clean up for a week or a month and he’d leave Billy alone. And she’d be back. Because what else was there for her? A secretary job where she’d have to find someone to watch Billy during the day? And who would pay for that? 

She’d pack them up and drive the three hours to her sister’s place. Just past Reno. In the hot sun that seemed to never dull. And the smell of desert that always cut through the image of the snow-capped mountains that loomed over the backdrop of the city like some kind of sleeping giant. 

But Billy’s uncle Earl was no better than his own father. 

————————

He hears the Camaro door shut behind him. As he takes the walk up the pavers to his aunt’s trailer. He didn’t say anything to Steve. Assumed he’d not move. Assumed he’d keep his seat warm and silent the way he’s been all day.

He keeps a careful distance between them, but Steve’s never been good at keeping his curiosity at bay. Why would the discomfort of the day stop him now?

Billy doesn’t have to look back to know he’s come to a halt near the porch. He’s frozen there, in his head wondering how quickly he could get back to the spiked bat if he needed it. 

Billy takes a deep breath, shaking hand as he watches it rise to knock. Once, twice. Then takes a few steps back. Dusk is falling quickly into darkness, but the lights are on inside and he can hear the TV cranked up. 

The sound of a beer can being crunched under foot, the light flicking on in his face. He winces at the sudden appearance like an apparition in front of him. So much like her. But not her at all. His heart has lept into his throat and he swallows it back down when she looks him over, head to toe. Something cold crossing her features, and settling in his gut as her eyes linger on his, sucking her teeth before breaking the silence with, “look what the cat dragged in.”

“Aunt Marge,” he nods at her, trying to keep disinterest on his face, “I’m, um…”

“Earl!” she hollers over her shoulder without her eyes leaving Billy’s face, “come look what the cat dragged in.”

He winces as he listens to the grumbling voice, the sound of a beer can being tossed at the wall, missing the trash can and clinking off linoleum. 

“I don’t mean to interrupt,” he hurries, wanting to get this out before Uncle Earl is before him. With his dirty hair and scruffy beard, with his beady eyes and stale beer breath, “I just want to know when you saw her last. My mom.”

She flinches a little, like Billy’s just spit at her, then she blinks and turns her focus solely on him, “thought you’d be in the ground by now Billy.”

“Not yet ma’am,” he forces himself to stay put, to stay square to the door when Uncle Earl appears on the other side of Aunt Marge. 

“Well what do ya know?” Uncle Earl whoops in mock victory, “he’s still alive. Little piss ant,” he rolls a spit around in his mouth, lifting a cup to dispense the tobacco brown saliva into as his dark eyes linger on Billy’s face, “not so much of a runt anymore,” he appraises to no one in particular, “bet he’s still just as weak.”

“Have you seen her Aunt Marge?”

“Your dad still alive Billy?”

“Yeah,” he finds himself flinching again as he says it, wishing it wasn’t true.

“So you’re alive. Your dad’s alive. Here’s how I see it,” Aunt Marge leans against the doorframe, her skinny arms crossing over her flat chest, “one of you’s is in the ground by now. And if it ain’t you or your daddy, then it’s her. Poor Chrissy, she never was a quick learner. Last I saw her she’s on the back of a motorcycle. Headed anywhere but here.”

There’s a hot ball of rage that Billy hasn’t felt in so long starting to burn in his belly. His fists clench at his side uncontrollably, “when?” he manages to grit out, “when did you see her last?”

“Don’t know. Been awhile,” her eyes are blue, they’re too much like Mom’s and not enough like them at all.

“And you didn’t catch the guy’s name?”

“All I know, he wasn’t Neil Hargrove,” she makes a move away from the doorframe, “and anything that isn’t Neil Hargrove is an improvement,” Uncle Earl’s snort is one of agreement as he disappears into the interior of the trailer that Billy spent a lot of his childhood curled up in the closet of the backroom while he listened to the raucous parties Marge and Earl threw. While he listened to the cursing and drinking. While he waited for the light of morning to come sliding through the crack between the door and the shag carpet. The light of morning to tell him it was okay to come out now.

“Who was it?” his hand lands firmly on the door before she can swing it shut in his face, “who was it?”

“Told you Billy,” she says his name like it physically hurts her to do so, “don’t know.”

“Back then Marge. Who was it? Where’d she run off to back then?” it wasn’t every time. Sometimes she’d stay. Sometimes they’d both stay and they’d both sleep in the backroom. On the lumpy mattress and she’d sing him to sleep as she listened to the sounds of the parties and the drunken footsteps in the hall. She’d listen. She’d be there when he fell asleep and she’d be there when he woke up. But sometimes, sometimes she’d leave. She’d leave Billy there alone with them. With her own sister. Thinking it was okay. It was okay to leave him there with her own sister, “what was his name?” he grits it out, through the rage that’s coming to a full steam inside him. A rage he hasn’t felt since before. Before the Upside Down and the Mind Flayer. Before dying on the arm of the Spider Monster. Before seeing everything the other side had to offer. 

Her eyes narrow, she sucks her cheeks into her teeth for a moment as she scans him over before her expression falls and she turns with a sigh. Without a word. But leaves the door open. So he waits. He waits and breathes. He waits with his hand on the door clenching and relaxing. Breathing that ball back into something more manageable. Something smaller and round. Something that has no beginning and no end. Something that didn’t begin the day he was born or the day his father punched him in the mouth for the first time or the first lick of the belt on his bare flesh or the first time he grabbed Phillip by the shoulders and spun him around to leave a bloodstain on his perfect skin. 

Something that has no end. 

“Do you remember it?” her voice is barely above a whisper, her fingers sliding a piece of paper into his half-clenched fist, “do you remember it Billy?”

He doesn’t respond vocally, his eyes catch on hers and the rage inside of him crumbles into a pool of liquid heat, burning through his intestines and sliding down his knees, pooling at his ankles and threatening to drag him under a wave of grief. 

“Be careful chasin’ after things that leave you. There’s a reason they left. And you might not like it once you know what it is.”

He feels himself nod at her. Robotic and disconnected. The way he floated through the years after she left. The way he carried on without the soft touch of her hand on his forehead and the coolness of her fingers under his chin. 

He takes the steps down the stairs, shoves the keys at Steve’s chest. 

The paper crumbles in his hand as he sits in the passenger seat, listening above the sound of the blood rushing in his head to the turn of her engine under Steve’s coaxing, “where?” is all he manages to get out of Steve's throat in into Billy's ears.

“Don’t give a shit,” fisted hand rising to grind knuckles against his chin. Grinding until a sharp pain shoots through his jaw, familiar and necessary, “just find a liquor store.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> While I don't think Billy's mom was a bad person by any means, I have trouble reconciling her leaving him with Neil. Maybe she planned on coming back for Billy once she started a life, and I guess we'll find out soon.


	14. To See Things Differently

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Steve

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Billy is going to talk about his background - it's going to hurt.

To See Things Differently 

Steve only does as he’s told because he can see that anger around him like a palpable thing in the air, a wire stretched taut about to snap. The pain and violence of his childhood burning beneath his skin and becoming that thing that makes him lash out.

Instead of bringing him to some bar where he’ll get hit on by girls he won’t want to fuck, and he’ll feel even worse for being who he is, Steve takes him to some middle-of-nowhere place in the desert scrub brush at the foot of the mountains and sets up the tent while Billy knocks back a six-pack in short order. 

He doesn’t want to talk. And Steve’s not sure he’d be able to hear it even if he did. He’s not sure he wants to know the story behind every scar. He’s not sure he’d be able to be the strength that Billy needs right now to keep himself together. 

So he stays quiet. And he listens to the fire crack and pop. He watches Billy’s Adam’s Apple bob as he starts on the next six-pack.  
He waits until the sky is a blacker shade of blue and then purple and then nothing but a infinite amount of stars on an endless blanket. Then he nods at Billy, Billy with the oranges and yellows of flame framing his face, lighting his hair in a hue the makes it look fake while Steve’s fingers itch to reach out. Reach out and stroke through the tangle resting on his shoulder. Ache to reach out and feel the soft strands with a little bit of sticky hairspray. 

Instead, he shoves his hands in his pockets and makes his way to the tent. He doesn’t sleep. Not right away. He keeps his ears tuned in on Billy and the sound of the fire. He catches the smoke of a cig tangling with the smoke of wood-fire and desert air that he’s never smelled before. 

He listens as Billy crushes his last empty can. As his footsteps stumble and he backs away from the campsite. As a stream of pee hits the dirt off near the scrub brush. As he mumbles to himself, nothing Steve can hear, but certain by tone of voice that he’s cursing himself out for something. Anything. Any reason to believe that he truly is the trash his father has convinced him he is.

His breath catches when he hears the zipper of the tent. When Billys tumbles in, removing his shoes with his feet hanging outside the canvas before he zips it shut, topples over onto the mat and stills immediately.

Unaware of his surroundings inside the tent, but aware enough of the tent to be mindful of keeping the bugs out. Billy’s head must be swimming by now. And his body not much better. 

His head has landed on Steve’s belly. The back of it resting there, where it’s moving up and down with every breath Steve takes. His eyes are wide open and unblinking. His body so still he looks nearly dead. 

Steve’s not going to make him talk. He’s not going to ask him how he feels. If he’s okay. He’s not going to do anything at all. If Billy wants to make a move, he will. And Steve will be here for whatever move that is. 

He says nothing, he doesn’t move. For long enough that Steve’s eyes are getting heavy with sleep and his limbs are getting pins and needles. Billy’s head a comforting weight on his stomach, right against his ribs, right there in a soft vulnerable spot that should make Steve on edge. But it doesn’t.

“You’re s’posed to hate me Harrington,” his voice is gruff with oncoming sleep. And Steve’s head is too hazy with it to respond. It echoes in his skull, makes room for itself in every lobe but doesn’t actually take root. Like a bird passing by on a white summer cloud in an endless blue sky. There long enough to remember, but not long enough for permanence.

—————————

By the time he wakes with the sun warming up the inside of the tent to nearly boiling, Billy is already outside. Cooking breakfast over the fire. Steve would borrow his morning greeting, but Billy looks too much like the sun shining off the surface of an ocean that Steve has never seen, and he can’t be literal with a nickname. Instead he nods a greeting when the swimming surface of that ocean lands on him. 

He’s void of all expression, all the hurt and anger from yesterday is gone. In its place is a dark pit of nothingness. The nothingness is worse. Far worse than anything else could be. 

They stay silent while they do the morning routine. The one they’ve gotten mostly used to. Drifting past each other while they dismantle the tent. Eat breakfast. Pack it all back in the trunk of the Camaro. 

Billy puts himself in the passenger side before Steve has a chance to think about it. He doesn’t ask where they’re going. Just assumes he’s ready to get back to San Fransisco now. To whatever is waiting for him there. The way he shut down, closed up and cut off the road trip yesterday morning, something must have sparked in him to just get this over with. Stop dragging this out and get home. Whatever home means to Billy Hargrove.

Steve’s eyes drift over to his form in the passenger seat when they’re about a half hour down the freeway, headed west. His gaze catches where Billy’s fingers are rolling the denim of his jeans between them. A spot of rust, the color of dried blood. High on his left thigh. 

Out of the corner of his eye, he follows Billy’s fingers as they press into his leg, then roll the denim between them, only to stop and press again until his breath catches and he blurts out, “Dad knocked up Mom right before he had to leave for Vietnam. She was supposed to take care of it. Get rid of it. Me. Get rid of me. They weren’t in love. They didn’t give a shit about each other. It was just a mouth to feed. That no one wanted to feed. But she didn’t,” his fingers dip into his thigh again, this time to control the hitch in his breath. He’ll make the pain physical long before he’ll let it be emotional. 

“He came home with a Purple Heart and bunch of stories he’d never be able to tell. And he’d never be able to forget. He came home and there I was. The problem Mom was supposed to get rid of.”

His fingers press until they’re white against the blue denim, “they never loved each other. But they got married ‘cause it’s the right thing to do. The good Christian thing to do. And what is an unwed woman with a child anyway?” there’s a tear gathered in the corner of his eye and Steve’s certain he hasn’t noticed yet. 

He forces his eyes back to the road, stomach rolling into a knot, throat threatening to close off.

“Dad hated her for it. And hated me for it. I was always a disappointment. Always liked that pansy shit like music and stuffed animals. I found a doll once at the playground and brought it home. The first time he belted me,” now his hand rises, his fingers stained reddish brown, the back of his hand hastily smearing the tear away from his cheek, “I deserved it though. I did every time. I could have made better choices. I could have acted like a man. It wasn’t his fault. He was trying to make me tough.”

Steve’s having a hard time watching the lines on the road, steering between them. His body is aching to do something, to do something to make this alright, to make sure Billy knows he can keep talking as openly as he wants. To make sure Billy knows that Steve’s not judging him. That he’s not going to hate him for all this. That he’s not going to ditch him. Forget about him. That none of this makes him less of a man.

“I was fourteen when I met Phillip. He was a sophomore and already captain of the basketball team. He was dark, and strong. He was fast, and his smile,” his head turns now, away from Steve, watching out the window as his right hand fists and props his chin up, elbow on the door, “we started fucking when I was fifteen. We’d meet on the beach at night and lie there afterwards, listen to the surf and talk about getting out. We both knew if we ever got caught we’d be dead, or wishing we were dead. Got stupid,” he grits it out like it’s burning his throat and piercing his mouth to say the words, “got caught by my dad. Made the mistake of, fuck,” both hands rest suddenly to sink fingers into his eyes and grind at the tears that are threatening to spill over, he backtracks, “Mom left when I was ten. She brought me to Aunt Marge’s one weekend after Dad was fucked up for about two weeks straight. Promised we’d never go back this time, we’d never see him again, never let him lie to us again only to get us back and start it all over. She stayed two nights at Aunt Marge’s with me. Left, said she’d be back, told me she was going to get a job and get our stuff and she’d be back. I was there for three months before Dad finally came to get me. I heard Aunt Marge on the phone with him one day, telling him he’d better come and he’d better bring cash to pay them back for all the food. Even if they made me work for it,” he adds quietly.

His chest heaves and his left hand drops again to the spot on his jeans that’s becoming red with fresh blood. It makes Steve’s stomach turn and his mouth taste sour. His eyes blur and he decides it’s time to pull off to the side of the road when he watches Billy’s fingers press into his thigh again. 

He turns into a roadside park. One of those places with a historic maker that marks some stone somewhere that’s not even visible from the turn-out, but at least there’s chamber toilets that stink to high heaven and are hot and full of flies. 

Billy’s hands turn, palms headed towards his eyes again, to smudge out the rest of the tears that are stinging at his eyes and he’s not allowed to cry.

Steve sighs, not knowing what to say, knowing whatever came out of his mouth now would be stupid and he should just keep it shut but he’s never really been that good at knowing when to shut up. He’s not going to tell him it’s okay, that they’ll find Phillip and they’ll find his mother and she’ll have had a damn good reason for never coming back to him, ‘cause he’s not a good liar either. 

His hand shoves the door open and before his mind can catch up with his body he’s moving around the hood of the Camaro, flinging the passenger side door open, bending beside it and leaning in to rest his face against Billy’s temple, his arms coming around him in the most awkward embrace ever, but it’s something anyway, “thank you for telling me,” is what comes out of his mouth, his right hand seizes Billy’s left where it’s pressed into his thigh and he drags it away, he gives resistance but not much, just enough for Steve to know he’s not going into this completely willingly, “that shit,” smoothing his hand over the tacky blood on his jeans, “is not happening ever again,” his left fingers sliding into Billy’s jaw, forcing his head to turn. He only gives him one eye, it’s glassy and tear filled, but it’s enough, “that shit is not happening ever again, you hear me? I didn’t spend the last year putting you back together again just so you could slice yourself apart,” he releases his face and realizes how close they are. Close enough to share breath. It feels like it’s not close enough and it’s way too close at the same time so he draws back, but keeps his left arm hanging loosely around Billy’s shoulders. Patting gently when he sighs, “I gotta pee, then we’re gonna go find this historical marker and work some of that hangover out of your system. Get ready to jazzercise Hargrove,” he taps his shoulder again before he disengages from the embrace. 

Billy’s face gets hidden in his hands immediately, but he grunts out something that sounds affirmative enough for Steve’s stomach to feel a little less like he swallowed a bundle of razors. 

————————

“Totally worth the walk back here in this heat,” Steve mumbles when they find the plaque for the marker, “you ever wonder what you’d have been if you grew up in the Wild West?”

“No.”

“Yeah, right, you totally have. You would have been robbing trains. I’d’ve been like a tavern owner or something. Whores and all.”

“Brothel owner King Steve?” he looks at Steve for the first time since they left the Camaro. It washes relief across his chest that breaks into a soft roll of contentment through his stomach when they linger, and a cocky smirk rises as he fishes in his pocket for a lighter to spark his cig, “you’d have been some idiot riding around in a stagecoach, beggin’ to be robbed ‘cause you’re rich enough to be stupid enough to think that no one can touch you,” he elbows him and and for the first time in what feels like forever, his eyes are twinkling.

“I resent that implication peasant,” acting affronted, “if I had a glove, I’d throw it.”

Billy takes a step back like he’s been shoved, the smile curling around the cigarette as he inhales, the tip glowing a deep orange before he turns to read the plaque. Something about the railroad and a lumber yard.

It’s on the way back that Steve admits, “I can read, you know? It just,” he tells his shoes instead of Billy, “I don’t know. Letters are just in the wrong order sometimes,” he shrugs, “so my dad thinks I’m stupid and my mom thinks I’m lazy. I guess that means I am.”

Billy’s elbow is a hard, sharp contact in his side, enough to jerk his head in his direction when he exhales a puff of smoke, Steve watches his lips and fights the urge to touch them when they're pursed like that. 

“Just see things differently,” Billy shrugs, “not stupid.”

It’s pretty much the same shit Sofia’s been telling him his whole life, well, since she started teaching him to read anyway, but for some reason when Billy says it, it’s more believable. Maybe ‘cause he sees the world differently too.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am implying that Steve is dyslexic - I think(?) it could fit in canon.


	15. Between The Sky And Sea

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Billy

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: suicidal thoughts and actions

Between The Sky And Sea

Billy’s stomach is quivering, standing on the stoop of the house that’s changed so much since he was last here, sneaking through the back door in the darkness. 

They stopped at a wayside with showers to clean up. Billy’s insides going liquid every time he thought too hard on it. Taking his time getting his look just right, his hair just right, his jewelry just right. Steve had leaned back, his butt resting on the sink, arms crossed, watching in silence. Until finally he had enough, told him, ‘you look fine Hargrove, let’s go before it’s too late to knock on someone’s door without them calling the cops’. Harrington clearly doesn’t know the neighborhood.

There was something in his eyes, something Billy won’t put a label on, when he looked at him before he got out of the Camaro on the curb. But he smiled, nodded with a ‘go get ‘em tiger’. 

Now Billy has watched his hand rise and knock twice. He takes a deep breath to try steadying his nerves, but it doesn’t help. The only thing that will help is seeing that face. He knows it. He knows that face and it’s been far too long.

The door swings open as his stomach drops to his ass and his words lodge in his throat. The look on Phillip’s face is anything but welcoming. Through the thunder rolling in his ears, he hears his mother, calling, “who is it baby?”

“No one, just give me a minute,” as he steps out, forcing Billy to take a step back, shoving the door shut angrily behind him. His brows are dipped over his honey drizzled eyes and his arms cross defensively as he scans Billy. He’s about an inch taller and he still carries the scar on his temple from Neil’s wedding band slicing through his skin on a glancing contact blow. 

Billy’s hand rises, without his permission, reaching out. Before it can touch, Phillip takes a step back, “you can’t be here.”

“I know. I…”

“Then what are you doing here?” his voice is an angry whisper. Eyes cutting through Billy worse than any blade he’s ever laid on his own flesh.

“I wanted to…”

“No,” his hands come out between them like he’s not sure if he wants to shove Billy down the stairs or if he just wants to make a physical barrier between them, “no. I can’t… you can’t… do you have any idea how long it took for me to sleep at night without nightmares of your father? Without my head twisting every little noise in the house into some assholes in sheets burning crosses on my lawn? Do have any idea how many times I’ve walked down a street looking over my shoulder, assuming I’m going to get a fag beating? Do you have any idea,” his voice breaks off, his hands drop to his sides, and his eyes blur with tears, “how long it took me to convince coach that I’m straight and I deserve a spot on the roster? College ball Billy, not some backyard game of hoops, but a real future. Fuck,” his hands rise now, slide through his hair angrily, “get out of here. Leave. Now. You’re a face I never wanted to see again,” his voice quivers and Billy’s stomach lurches towards the back of his throat.

He takes a step back. Heel to the edge of the top step, eyes lingering on Phillip’s face, knowing it’s the last time he’ll ever see him. He murmurs, “I loved you, you know?”

His face twists, and he takes a moment, watching as Billy lowers his foot on the step, he doesn’t try to stop him, instead, “schoolboy crush. You’ll get over it,” his hand drops to the door handle. The hand that coaxed so many thing out of Billy’s body he didn’t know himself capable of. Nothing that ever could have been just a schoolboy crush. 

Billy won’t allow himself to watch. To watch him walk away. To watch him exit his life forever. 

He turns before Phillip can open that door. Forces his shoulders to remain squared. Braced for the world and all the hits it has to offer. Billy’s been knocked down and out on the floor before when someone kicked him in the gut just to make their point. He’s used to it. It doesn’t make it hurt less. But at least he’s grown to expect disappointment, to never hope. 

Steve doesn’t tell him he’s driving too fast, doesn’t tell him to slow down, doesn’t say anything at all when he peels rubber in the neighborhood to let everyone know he’s here, he’s back and if he wanted it he could take it. Billy can take anything. And he wants them all to know that. Leaving the marks behind to let them all know, windows open to hoot and holler at everyone who’s outside. So they’ll all be saying ‘that Hargrove kid is back’, and they’ll be looking for him for days. 

Billy would take it if he wanted it. 

Billy can take.

He can take until he has everything he wants.

He can take.

Billy can take until he can’t take anymore. 

—————————

He doesn’t stop dropping gears until there’s no more to drop. He doesn’t stop drifting the the corners until there’s no more corners left. He doesn’t stop until he’s parked at the beach. Their beach. The only beach. The only place in this fucking town that ever mattered.

Steve didn’t say a word the whole time. Didn’t even look scared. Of course, his self-preservation skills are shit, so Billy’s not surprised.

He gets out of the car, the sun is a glimmering orange orb dipping low on the horizon. Blurring the line between the sky and sea. Where the world is round and the sky is infinite. Billy yanks off his chains. Rips out his earrings. Steps out of his boots and peels back his shirt. Not bothering to undo the buttons, instead letting them pop off and fall to the sand around him. Leaving a trail of crumbs for the Hell that is his life to follow him should it so choose.

There are noises exiting his mouth somewhere between madness and death. Teetering on that edge and welcoming the latter. This time, this time he’s ready. It’s over. It won’t be the Spider Monster of the Mind Flayer. No. Not this time. This time it’ll be Billy Hargrove. It’ll be Billy who will plunge over that line. He’ll go head first and never look back. 

—————————

His head is drowning. His body is floating. The ocean is cold. Salty and stinging his flesh. 

He swims until his legs are spent and his lungs are on fire. He disappears under a wave and wishes he had a board to paddle out on. To take one last ride in the only place he’s ever called home. 

He watches the sky blur into ocean and the surf fade into sky as he lets himself fall under. He waits for the current and doesn’t fight it. He knows this place, better than anything he’s ever known in his life, and he’s ready to return home. He’s lived his life in a cardboard boat. And now the water is high. He’s been on his own for far too long with nowhere to hide and he’s ready. He’s lost this round, he’s been a loser his whole life and no amount of winning now can change that. 

There is no winning and there is no way to find his way back. He doesn’t want to.

HIs eyes open as he watches the translucent water around him grow thick enough to block out the last rays of light cutting through the waves. It stings, burning through his skull with every echo of his father’s voice, rattling around in his skull. With his mother promising she’d be back. With Aunt Marge and Uncle Earl promising he’d pay for that, he’d earn that meal. It twists in his throat, sears the back of his tongue as Phillip’s voice joins them. Telling him he never wanted to see his face again.

Billy opens his mouth under water to let the last of his breath surge to the surface. Feeling the tug of the ocean at his ankles as he watches the bubbles rise, breaking the surface. His last breath. It’s not his first last breath, but this time he’s certain it’s permanent.  
It grows darker around him, and the water whooshes with the weight of something swimming close to him. He doesn’t bother opening his eyes once more. He knows the sea life of the ocean and he’s not afraid of it. 

His eyes only open when a hand grips around his wrist. His groan is swallowed by the surf pounding around them as his eyes lock onto the brown warmth of Steve’s eyes, that fucking idiot. He’s pulling on Billy’s wrist, kicking towards the surface now, his face tilting that way as another wave washes over them and pulls them downward against his attempts.

“Fuck!” Billy shouts it into the ocean, getting garbled and swallowed whole before it can reach Steve. Fuck him. Fuck him for following him. Fuck him for this. He jerks his hand back, twisting it away but Steve grips harder, now with both hands. 

“Fuck!” he shouts it again with the very last burst of breath he has in his body and he’s not about to let Steve go down with him. He saved his stupid ass from drowning already, he’s not going to do it again. 

With the very last burst of energy he possesses, he kicks toward Steve, turning his hand to grip the idiot’s wrist so he knows he’s not about to let go. They break the surface with gasps, and at least this time the moron is breathing, “what the fuck?!” a wave breaks over his head and he spits out the water towards Steve as they bob on the crest of it, “you weren’t supposed to follow me!” he smacks the top of the water, letting it shatter against Steve’s face as he drools salt water out the corners of his lips. 

“You could just stay in the fucking car like I told you,” he slaps the water again as the wave falls out from beneath them, the moment of calm in the storm that is the ocean. 

Steve doesn’t respond, instead watches the next wave arching towards them, taking a deep breath to prepare. The dying light of day glinting off his irises, making them darker and brighter all at once before they close and the wave crests, shoving them both towards shore.

Billy opens his eyes underwater, feels the tug of the wave’s current, let’s himself flow along with the water. Relaxed and open, ready for whatever it has to give. Steve’s kicking beside him, he can feel the movement rushing through the liquid between them. When his hand reaches out to paddle, it contacts the warmth of his skin, zapping electric pulses of anger through his core. Why? Why’d he follow? Why couldn’t he just let Billy make this decision? Why?

Billy knows he’s not worth shit. He’s not worth anything to anybody, but Steve is dumb enough to think there must still be something out there. Something for him, something that’ll make fighting to the surface time and time again worth it. 

Steve’s an idiot.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "I’m on a cardboard boat  
> And the water is high  
> When you’re on your own  
> Feels like there’s nowhere to hide  
> I’m on a cardboard boat  
> Tonight 
> 
> Been looking back again  
> feels like I’ve lost everything  
> I know I’m older now  
> Feels like the tide’s rushing in  
> Been looking back again tonight  
> So Please leave the light on  
> So I can find my way back to you  
> Leave the light on, for me. "
> 
> ~ David Berkeley from Cardboard Boat, released September 25, 2015  
> straw man publishing 2015 ascap


	16. Being Young Sucks

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Steve

Being Young Sucks

The moon is low on the sky, throwing diamonds at the water where it glitters and breaks against the shore. Billy’s shivering. Sitting in the wet sand near the edge, where it keeps reaching out to touch him before it recedes. Droplets sliding through his curls and lingering at the ends before they slither down his bare back.

“Here,” Steve reaches out with the clothes Billy shed as he walked into the water. Maybe an hour, maybe a lifetime ago. He wasn’t sure what Billy was doing when he started walking. So he picked up all the things he was depositing in the sand along his way. Folding his clothes, tucking his jewelry into his pockets. 

It hit him all at once what Billy was doing like a train barreling down the tracks while he stood still listening to the whistle and didn’t move. Until he finally moved. 

His underwear are wet, his shirt is wet. He managed to slither out of his jeans and shoes, knowing those would be the most inhibitive to swimming freely. 

Billy grunts, his hand sliding over the cloth like it’s unfamiliar. Or a gift he’s afraid to open. Steve sighs, pulls the clothing back towards himself with one arm, the other sliding over Billy’s shoulder, “‘c’mon. Let’s find a fire ring somewhere and get warmed up.”  
“Shoulda let me go Steve.”

“Yeah, well, I’m a slow learner alright, so deal with it,” his hand seems to have found purchase on the round perch of Billy’s shoulder. He squeezes, “let’s go. I hear hypothermia sucks.”

He snorts something untranslatable and Steve pats him, a silent urge to get the hell up. 

—————————

The familiar reflection of the fire on Billy’s surface. His shoulders hunched in on himself, no longer shivering. Steve’s been whistling, because he doesn’t know what else to do to make some noise, wanting Billy to know he’s not alone. Even if it feels that way.

It sucks getting rejected by the person you love, but driving halfway across the country and leaving behind whatever was left in Hawkins just to get rejected? That’s like a new level of sucking. 

His eyes rise finally, flames dancing across his irises, “why?” 

“Why what?” Steve wonders lamely, even though he knows exactly what Billy is asking. He wants to know what Steve thinks is worth living for. Or with keeping him alive for. And Hell, he’s not really that sure. 

Billy drops his shoulders, stretches his neck from side to side like he’s preparing for a fist fight instead of a conversation. 

Steve plops down on the log beside him. Close enough that his arm brushes against Billy’s and goosebumps rise even though he’s certain he’s not cold anymore. 

“I think being young sucks.”

Billy snorts, doesn’t turn. Reaches for his pack of smokes.

“No, really I do. I think it’s too hard to figure shit out when you’re young but everyone expects you to have it all figured out, right? Like, what do you want to be when you grow up? How many children will you have? Will you have a white picket fence and a lovely wife who knows her place is in the kitchen?” he kicks at a pebble next to the fire ring, “you fall in love for the first time and you think it’s the only time. You get hurt for the first time and you think it’ll be the last time ‘cause you’ll be smarter next time. You have your future all planned out and then your dad shits on it, holds it over your head the whole time you’re growing up until you just accept that you’ll be exactly like him and then he just takes it away. Everybody’s always telling you what to do and who to be but they want you to be yourself and make your own decisions, too bad you’re still a kid and your decisions suck most of the time.”

Billy grunts again, flicking his lighter and sparking the smoke. 

Steve doesn’t have to watch him to know how his cheeks look when they’re sucked in against his teeth. He doesn’t have to look to know what his lips look like wrapped around the paper stick. His arm brushes against his again when he returns the lighter to his pocket. 

“So I figure you’re nineteen. And you’ve already died once. And you’ve already made a shit ton of bad decisions. And you’ve already been through,” his breath catches, not knowing how to finish that. Swallowing hard and still gasping on, “a lot,” where it stalls in the space in front of his face and he wishes he could take it back because it’s not nearly enough, “so, there’s no way in Hell it can get worse, right?” he nudges Billy’s arm with his elbow. 

Prepared, but not nearly enough, for his eyes to land on Steve’s. For the oranges, yellows and reds of the fire to dance over top of the blue pools of his life. His face turned towards Steve’s and he’s so close. A breath of space between them. A distance small but not easily crossed. The smoke is slow to roll between his lips. Fogging the air and creating a dreamlike haze over the image. 

A deep breath, forcing his head to turn away, “hungry?”

————————

There’s a piece of folded up paper in Billy’s hand, he keeps crunching it in his fist, whatever was on it, whatever was written on the note that his aunt passed him, it’s probably worn off by now, but Steve wonders towards it anyway, “your mom?”

“Yeah.”

“Where?”

His face twists, fighting anger and resentment, hurt, longing, and love all at the same time, “Vegas,” the cig returns to his lips angrily for a puff before his bottom lip gets tucked between his teeth and he lets out a sigh, “probably started a new life there with some rich casino owner or somethin’.”

“Or she’s a showgirl,” Steve teases.

Much to Billy’s chagrin, since the glare he receives would kill a lesser man.

“Just a thought.”

“Your thoughts are bogus King Steve.”

Reaching out to poke at the fire with a half burned stick, “so you’re tellin’ me that your mom is in Vegas? Probably livin’ it up with the real King and here we are in California instead?”

“The real King?”

“Elvis.”

“You realize those are impersonators, right?”

“Well, duh, he’s in Memphis or something, hiding from the press. Totally alive and well and lost all that weight and stopped doing drugs, ‘cause drugs are bad.”

“Were dropped on your head often as a child?”

“Lead based paint and everything.”

“That goes without saying,” the corner of his mouth is lifting into a smirk. It makes Steve’s heart do a little flutter thing that’s he’s going to blame on, oh, maybe watching him try to die again, and now he’s almost smiling. 

He lets the silence fall around them, not that there’s really anything like silence in nature. The sound of the ocean rolling towards shore off the edge of the cliff beside their campsite. The sound of seabirds and a fog horn. The crackling and popping of the fire, hissing as the piece of wet wood leaning over the tee-pee structure of the fire drips on the coals below. 

“Sleep on it, the mom thing. I’m up for a trip to Sin City. Or we could keep going south, see LA. I hear it’s totally tubular down there.”  
“Or do both,” Billy grumbles it, won’t make eye contact, stuffs the piece of paper in his pocket. But Steve would be deaf to miss the sigh of relief he allows past his lips.

————————

If Steve lays awake in the tent and listens to Billy breathe for a long time before he falls to sleep that night, it’s only because he’s gotten used to his rhythm. It’s not because he knows the time is limited, it’s not because he wants to savor it.

————————

“Turns out, LA is so not tubular,” Steve sighs, leaning against the door, arm on the window ledge, hand in the air. Hot air. It’s hot and traffic is stuck. Everything is really expensive and the people look like they’re made out of plastic.

“Not even a little bit,” Billy agrees, leaning his head back against the headrest with a heavy sigh.

“Joshua Tree?” Steve spreads open the pamphlet from the stack of pamphlets that he’s been picking up at every gas station along the way.

“All those ugly thorn bushes in the desert?”

“And a bunch of really cool rocks.”

“It’s better than tall buildings and smog.”

“Sure is.”

————————

If LA was hot. Then Joshua Tree is the gates of Hell. And there’s nothing green, not like alive kind of green, anywhere in sight. If Steve thought the desert by Reno was ugly, “yep, this is the gates of Hell.”

“Yep,” Billy’s smoke stick bobs when he answers, his focus on pounding the stakes in for the tent. Before dark, preferably. 

“There isn’t even anything tall enough to piss behind.”

“Stage fright?”

“No, just…” he clears his throat, pretends that his ears are not turning pink from the conversation the other night that he’s fully remembering now. Now. Of all times, “that was like, a one time only launch failure, alright?”

Billy puts his hands up like he’s innocent, and his lips rise into a smirk around the cig, “I was just talkin’ about piss. Not launching rockets.”

“Well, it sounded a whole lot like there were implications in there of…”

“Implications, huh? Practicing your vocabulary for when you go crawlin’ back to Daddy for your rightful place in his court?”

“Maybe I am,” Steve tries like Hell to hide the smile rising. Tries and fails. Because Billy is smiling, and Billy is beautiful when he smiles and fuck it if Steve isn’t the only man on this planet who can see that.


	17. Hey Mama, It's Me

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Billy

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> More heartbreak ahead. Poor Billy, just can't catch a break.

Hey Mama, It’s Me

Billy falls asleep that night in the silence of the desert with Steve’s eyes piercing through the darkness of their tent, a stupid canvas structure that’s felt more like home than Hawkins ever did. He knows Steve wants to say something, probably give him a pep talk about tomorrow, about meeting his mother for the first time in nearly a decade, about how he needs to stay calm, try to ease her into it, he can’t just attack her with anger and ‘why did you leave me?’. But Steve also knows when to keep his damn mouth shut sometimes. And he knows he’s never done this in his fucking life and he’ll never have to, his mom might not be around much but he knows she’s always eventually going to come back. He’ll never have to face her after a decade, a fucking decade of being knocked around by his dad, convincin’ him he was never worth more than the dirt he tracked in on the tread of his boots.

————————

He won’t let Steve drive. He’s gotta do this for himself, by himself, if he’s going to do it. He knows that much.

He can tell Steve is nervous, keeps drumming his fingers on the dash, growing more incessant the closer they get to Vegas. The city looms on the horizon like a giant electricity bill from miles away. Nothing but flat desert and freeway between them and it. It. 

His stomach in knots and his mind a whir of what-if’s and if-onlys that he can’t answer just by laying eyes on her once more. 

What he supposed to do anyway? He just supposed to step up to the door at this place where she could be raising a replacement family, just step up and knock, tell her, ‘hey Mama, it’s me.’? And expect her to welcome him in. After she left him, after she chose to leave him and not come back.

He cuts back to let the engine purr, just a mumble under a hood of snort, as he eases into the spot up the street of the house Aunt Marge gave him the number for. He can’t just knock. He can’t just walk up there and knock. He needs to know what he’s stepping into first. He needs to know what he’s about to knock on. What if there’s a husband? What if there’s a child, not much younger than Billy? What if there’s more? A dog, a cat, a white picket fence and a college savings fund. Dinner on the table where everyone is gathered around talking about their day, a table where both parents listen, like they actually give a shit about what their kids did in school or at the playground or at sports practice or at summer academy for whatever rich spoiled ass kid thing that rich spoiled ass kids get to do that the rest of us don’t get to do. Maybe he should ask Steve.

But Steve is quiet. Aside from the drumming on the dash. And the question in his eye when he looks Billy’s way after he feels Billy watching him. 

“I need a minute,” Billy mumbles, getting out of the car in a hurry, closing the door as quietly as he can. Not that his mom would know the sound of her, but if she heard a car door shut nearby, maybe she’d peek out the window to see who it is, maybe she’d expect her teenaged daughter to be getting out of her preppy boyfriend’s car and she’d instead be met with the son she abandoned nine fucking years ago.

He leans his butt against the hood of the car, still warm from the heat of the powerful engine. It seeps through his jeans immediately while the desert air stifles him from all other sides. A film of sweat on his palms that he tries to wipe on his thighs only to reappear the moment it’s gone. He can feel it beading and trickling down his back, past the band of his jeans and right down his ass crack. 

He reaches for his pack of cigs, takes mental inventory of how he looks right now. How with nothing but a white wife-beater and a pair of jeans, there’s nothing to hide behind. Steve found all his jewelry but he didn’t bother putting it back on. He tugs a nervous hand through his hair, wondering if it’s time to ditch the look. Time to cut it short and be the man his father is always harping on him to be. Not like he can join up now. He’s been pierced through the chest by a monster from another dimension and that ain’t something he can explain away on a military application. A fucking faggot in boot camp, he snorts to himself at the thought. If there’s a place in this world for Billy, and he’s pretty damn sure there isn’t, it certainly isn’t the military. 

He flicks the lighter, watches the flame dance with his exhale. As the door of the place opens. HIs heart thuds against his chest, his still beating heart that he wishes had just given out back in the hospital in Hawkins, or maybe on the floor of Starcourt Mall. 

“Mom,” he hears himself whisper, past the smoke stick, through the fog of panic and uncertainty. That’s her. That’s her. And she’s exactly how he remembers.

His heart stalls out again when she stops on the porch, holding the door open for someone else to exit. Breath pausing and mouth going dry, the desert air sucking the life out of him, or maybe it’s the vision that’s starting to make its way slowly through his eyes and into his brain. 

Coming through the door is a man. A man, a man that Billy was prepared for. He was prepared for it. For a man to be in her life. For a man to be the reason she left him. For a man to be the reason she never came back. For a man to be the reason it’s been nine years. HIs lip trembles and his throat closes off. 

There’s a small hand linked into the hand of the man. A small girl with darker hair, the same as the man’s. And behind them is a boy. A boy with curly blond hair and height to match his mother’s. He must be about fifteen. About to outgrow her. 

Billy’s throat feels raw, coated with bile as he tugs on the cig. Watches his mother laugh, turn her head over her shoulder to say something to the boy. The boy smiles at her, like the sunshines just for them. And Billy swallows the emptiness back down, lurches towards the driver side, moving on autopilot as he revs up the engine, darts out of the neighborhood, headed straight for the heart of Sin City.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I will end this pain soon, I promise.


	18. Had A Man Like That

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Steve

Had A Man Like That

The drinks are weird, the music is loud, if it can even be considered music that is, and Steve has been alone at the bar for way too long to be enjoying this anymore. 

When Billy left his mom’s house, Steve didn’t say a word. Someone like Billy, he can’t just tell him what to do, he has to figure it out on his own. And he will. Steve can’t imagine his mother ditching him at ten years old with a physically abusive father, just to carry on with a brand new life complete with a replacement family. So yeah, Billy needs to blow off some steam.

His chosen venue is a gay club. Something Steve never knew existed. It’s in the ground level of some giant casino, so it probably doesn’t exist legally or anything like that. But it’s here. And Steve thought it was the strangest place he’d ever been when they first walked in. Not because he thinks anything is strange about being gay, but he just sort of thinks that men walking around in dresses and sequins and wigs is kind of strange. Okay, so some of them look like women. Like actual women. But most of them are too big, too thick, too broad to be women. There’s even one that still has a full-on beard, biker beard. 

But to each their own and Steve isn’t judging. He just maybe doesn’t get it. 

Billy’s not interested in the guys dressed like women either. He’s been on the dance floor for, like, an hour now with some guy that’s all beefy and tattooed. Of course that’s what Billy would go for. Could he get more opposite than Steve?

Fuck. He turns on the stool again to check what’s happening out there. Who knew Billy could dance? And not like Hawkins High dance type dancing. But actual like Footloose type stuff. And there’s this stuff happening that Steve can only describe as humping, he’s never seen it before on the dance floor. It’s distracting as Hell. 

His eyes wander the dance floor to discover that there’s all kind of sexual shit happening out there, and he doesn’t care that it’s guy on guy stuff, that’s fine, it’s just Billy. It’s Billy smiling at some guy he doesn’t even know, and he’s rubbing against him and the guy keeps grabbing at Billy’s hips and Steve’s fingers keep twitching against his beer like they want to be on those hips. Shit. 

The guy’s hands keep sliding up his hips, gripping the bottom hem of his wife-beater like he’s going to slide it off over his head. Billy keeps tucking it back down, grasping the guy’s hands and pushing them back onto his hips. Steve is pretty sure if the guy can’t get the damn hint soon that Billy doesn’t want to be shirtless on the dance floor, then he’s about to go get the spiked bat, which he should have a name for by now; and show him the hint in a very non-verbal, non-hinting and insanely obvious way because it’s not polite to take someone’s shirt off of them when they don’t want it. 

Goddamn it. He taps the bar for another round, tries his hardest to look away from the golden cascade of curls on Billy’s back. The ones that this guy, who doesn’t even know half of him, or what he’s been through, is touching now. He’s brushing the hair away from Billy’s ear and leaning in to whisper something. His lips brush against the shell of his ear and Steve’s stomach clenches. 

Downing about half the fresh beer in one gulp. 

Billy shakes his head, but the flirty smile doesn’t leave his face. The beer is already threatening the back of Steve’s throat and he’s only had, maybe three. Not even enough to be buzzed enough to tune out the music. 

Something brushes against his face and he snorts, eyes dragging over to the offending object that turns out to be some kind of whip thingy that people use on horses, “I had a man like that once,” the guy dressed in women’s clothes tells him with a lift of one corner of his mouth as his eyes scan pointedly over Billy’s gyrating hips, “had. Being the key word.”

Steve drags his eyes away from Billy, trying to force down whatever thing is seething in his stomach at the sight of the man’s hands on Billy’s hips again, “oh yeah?” his voice sounds gruff and wreaked and he’s not sure why, “what happened?”

“I let him dance for far too long by himself,” the guy winks, turns his attention to the bartender.

Steve’s back teeth are floating and his stomach is sitting in a twisted knot somewhere down by his feet. When the guy’s hands grip on Billy’ shirt hem again, he slams his beer down on the bar-top. 

He already knows what Billy’s answer is going to be, and he doesn’t give a shit anymore. What’s he got to lose? Aside from his hopes and his pride if this beefy guy decides to stake any claim to Billy, but Steve’s not going to think about that because Steve’s not much of a thinker anyway. He forces his way through the crowd, taps the guy’s shoulder, remembers what the sting of a fist on his face feels like and knows it’s survivable. It’s whatever Billy does next that he’s not sure is survivable. A deep breath, “pardon me sir,” he shouts it over the sound of the music.

Billy’s head turns at the sound of Steve’s voice, his eyes narrowed in confusion, brows dipped, his body stills. There’s a moment of defensive posturing in which Billy must think Steve is here to drag him off the floor, tell him he’s had enough, the night is over. It’s time to get back to bed and pray for absolution or some shit. 

Steve doesn’t bother turning his head to look at the guy, he responded, Steve isn’t sure over the rushing in his ears what he said, but he’s going to retain his manners anyway. It might be all he has left by the time this night is over, “may I cut in?”

He’s pretty sure his own legs have walked off on him, and the remainder of his body is floating somewhere up near that disco ball on the ceiling. They guy’s voice rumbles, he’s close to Steve, and he supposes the polite thing is to look him in the eye, but he can’t steal his gaze away from Billy’s face. 

He’s gone. In a very smooth, sudden movement that leaves Billy and Steve standing alone in the middle of a sea of people. And now Steve can’t think, if he ever did in the first place, and he has no idea what to say, so, “I’m no Ren McCormack,” ends up being the thing he fumbles with.

“Well I sure ain’t Ariel Moore and I don’t think you want to step into this Pretty Boy,” he makes a move towards the edge of the dance floor, like he’s going to walk off after that guy.

Steve’s hand reaches out from his side, grasping Billy’s wrist, something twists inside of him, “we’re already here Hargrove.”

Billy’s lip trembles, he’s ready to wage a war or ready to run and Steve only hopes he doesn’t twist out of his grip and disappear. The world would have to break to get Billy out of his head now. He gives it a tug, just a gentle tug, to remind him that he’s got a grip on him and he’s not letting go until Billy makes him. Or asks him to, Steve’s not exactly going to force him to take him. But he’s pretty sure the walls will fall if he walks away. 

There’s a moment where the world just pauses. Everything in his periphery is still. Silent aside from the rushing in his ears. Like he’s fallen into the Upside Down again and he’ll wake up in Starcourt Mall where Billy is dead on the floor. He’ll wake up and he’ll carry on like none of this ever happened because it didn’t. 

His eyes drop from the disco ball reflecting off the perfect surface of Billy’s watery eyes, they drop until the find the very tip of his scar at the very edge of his shirt. He takes a deep breath, it shudders and his free hand rises, appearing in his line of sight like something that doesn’t belong to him, something he couldn’t control even if he tried. He watches it land, palm down and flat against Billy’s chest. His hand is not enough to cover the entirety of the scar, but he knows exactly where it is, exactly where it starts, where it ends, and where it’ll always be. 

He watches his fingers slide up, tip of his pointer finger dipping into the hollow of Billy’s throat and watching his Adam’s Apple bob with a swallow as his fingers crest his jawline, sliding towards his cheek and through his whiskers. His thumb lingers at the corner of his lips where one becomes the other and Steve thinks that would be a great place to start were he to memorize every single part of him. Every part of Billy, memorize the parts he hasn’t yet, and taste each one as his mind maps out each dip and curve with the flavor of him to match.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm smellin' sparks about to fly...
> 
> (writing it doesn't mean it's my opinion. I think drag queens are artists.)


	19. Blank Spots Between

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Billy

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mild sexual content

Blank Spots Between

Steve’s gaze is stuck on Billy’s lips, his hand warm against his cheek. Billy’s eyes close as he leans into the contact. He hasn’t had enough to drink to be tipsy, or lose inhibitions. This place, a place where no one cares. No one cares what a person has been through to get here. No one cares who is sleeping with whom. No one cares.

No one cares. But his bare chest would be a shock to anyone’s system. Anyone other than the guy who kept him alive through it for the last year. 

The colors of the dance floor are drifting through his closed lids and the sparks from Steve’s fingers on his face are circling and colliding in the blank spots between. He takes a deep breath, rolls his eyes open to the sight of Steve’s gaze rising to meet him, “call the last round Harrington,” it was meant to sound like a dare, but it sounds more like a plea.

His hand slides back, palm flat on his neck, fingers bending around to rest tips to his spine. The gentle tug is the spark. The spark that’ll burn this place down. 

Closing the distance between them, the softness of Steve’s lips on his is a shock to his system that scorches through his throat, down deep into his belly to all those things he’s buried so deep for so long. Those dark things that he feared would block out the sun if he let them see the light of day.

Maybe if the bible’s right then the flood is coming, the flame is coming; and Billy no longer cares. He slides closer to Steve’s body heat, until they’re chest to chest and belly to belly. His hand finds the feel of jeans, snakes back and flattens on his lower back. 

His lips part, tentatively, questioningly. A question Billy longs to answer. He drops the drink in his hand to the floor, the liquid spilling on an already sticky surface, the sound of shattered glass. It rises, and falls into Steve’s hair, sliding through the tacky hair spray and finding the back of his skull. Holding him gently in place while he slots their lips together. 

Steve’s free hand is scrapping callouses against Billy’s bare skin, tucked under his shirt and rolling over every knob of his vertebrae until it comes to a rest on the other side of his scar. Fingers dipping into the crater with a touch of softness that Billy’s never felt from another human being since Phillip. The thought of Phillip catches in his throat but the feeling of Steve’s tongue slipping between his lips quickly chases it away. 

He thought he’d dance with a stranger, maybe get laid and burn off some of the anger that way. Let some of the hurt roll off him by letting someone he doesn’t know treat him like nothing more than a cheap date, a meaningless thrill for a night. He thought he’d get drunk and maybe high and if he avoided a fist fight that would be a good thing, but he didn’t care either way. He didn’t care. Not until a moment ago. Not until those eyes with all the depth of a million horizons landed on him like he truly saw him. And he was the only person that ever would.

He thought he’d be out here sweating and grinding on a stranger until the bartender called last round. That’s what he thought. But now he can’t get off the dance floor and back to their room quick enough. And he can’t stop stumbling over Steve every time he takes a step forward to get him to move towards the door. To get him off of this floor and onto a bed. To get him behind a closed door where he can strip him of all his clothes and his inhibitions. 

Steve grunts when his back hits something solid behind him. The stumbling across the floor has ended with a wall against his back and there’s still way too many solid definable things between their bodies. 

“You missed the door,” Steve grumbles, muffled between their lips.

“Shut up,” he can’t stop the smile from lifting the corners of his mouth, and he can’t peel himself away from Steve. He seems to be having the same problem. Not wanting to leave but wanting to get out of here. 

Billy pulls away just far enough to see his face, to gauge how far he’s going, how interested he truly is, if this is just a moment of bravery that’ll fade as soon as the lights of the club are turned off and the music has fallen to silence. If this is something he’ll regret in the morning. If he’ll be gone. When whatever amount of beer he drank is metabolized and he wakes against Billy’s body, if he’ll take off. Come to his senses and head back to Hawkins where he belongs.

“If you walk away,” his face moves further away, but his hands tighten their grip on Billy’s body, one leg tangling itself around Billy’s to pull him as tight as possible, “I’ll walk away.”

An exhale shakes and Billy’s eyes force themselves shut. Leaning in to close that space between them. He needs no words, he needs no more urging or coaxing or gentleness. He needs Steve. And he needs to take what’s being given.

The world goes dizzy and the room spins but is has nothing to do with the Upside Down or the club or Sin City. His hands clamp down desperately on Steve, bringing every part of him closer, and grinding against him. 

Pinned between the unmoving wall and the box that Billy has built around him, nothing in his body suggesting any discomfort. Every part of him gripping and chasing the surfaces of Billy that he can get to. Sliding over clothing and under it just as quickly like his fingertips can’t get enough but they want it all. Billy hesitates to push his pelvis against Steve’s, but his hands clamp down on his asscheeks, pulling him closer until there’s denim on denim between them where they’ve both gone hard. A desperate choked moan parts Billy’s lips and Steve chases it back with one of his own. Tangled on their tongues where they’re exploring the tastes of each other. 

Fingers skittering down Billy’s back, under his waistband and finding his bare cheeks beneath, barely enough space to fit. Billy pries his hands off Steve just long enough to pop his own button, giving the inch of space for Steve’s hands. The kiss deepens and something inside Billy’s chest feels like fireworks exploding on the fourth of July as he lay dying on the floor of mall in the middle of Indiana. Something breaks like a wave shattering against shore, stirring salt and grit through his core and dragging it away with the tide.

He pulls away from Steve’s lips but leans their foreheads together, breathing into each other’s open mouths. Steve’s voice is a choked rattle, only an echo of what it normally is, a garbled word or two that won’t reach through the haze invading Billy’s ears as orgasm rolls down his spine, pooling in his belly. His dick is aching against the fly of his jeans, feeling just barely the presence of Steve’s through his jeans. Steve’s head tilts back, fighting for an angle against the wall in the dark corner of the club where far more than this has happened on a regular basis, Billy’s certain. When his head is back, Billy’s face finds a warm spot in his neck, pressing lips against his pulse point and lingering as Steve’s hands clamp uncontrollably against Billy’s ass. The spike of his pulse and the silent moan that floats down around Billy as his body shudders in his arms. 

He waits. Stays still, and silent. Listening to Steve breathe while his own fogged over reality starts worming it’s way back in. The lights. The music. The sway of the crowd. There’s laughter and singing. There’s drinks being poured. People talking and kissing. People grinding on each other like nothing else in this room, in this city, in this world, exists. As Billy’s world is starting to clear, starting to spread inch by inch beyond the scope of the feeling of Steve’s body in his arms. 

He feels him swallow against his lips. A guttural laugh and his face tilts, leaning down to nudge at Billy. His hands still buried beneath the fabric of his jeans, still pressing against his asscheeks. He’s urging Billy to come out of this place he’s found to hide, but Billy doesn’t want to come out yet. He doesn’t want to come out of this place, only to have his real world rush back at him. Only to find his father or the Upside Down or the image of his mother and her new family. Only to find his reality tracing the outlines of the safety of Steve’s embrace. 

When his hands slide out of the back of Billy’s jeans his flesh is bereft of heat. Desperate to grasp Steve, pin him against this wall, and never let him up. But his fingers slide through Billy’s hair instead, falling to his shoulders beneath and staying there. Making certain he knows that Steve’s not going anywhere, his voice sounds wrecked like he’s just run a marathon or faced a demo-dog or gotten dragged out of a possessed lake, but he’s laughing when he says, “I knew you’d cream your pants over me some day.”

Billy would respond with something more than a disgruntled sigh, but there’s too much fighting for space inside his head and on the tip of his tongue to make any sense. So he settles for dropping a hand to Steve’s cock that’s going soft now, through the wet spot on his jeans, giving it a squeeze.

“Dick,” he jerks back just a little.

“That’s exactly what that is Harrington.”

There’s a sighed laugh that parts his lips, his head is leaned back again, hands playing patterns up and down against Billy’s skin, skirting the edge of his shirt, “wanna head back to the room?”

He should say yes, he should do something, anything at all, but he’s frozen with the thought of what happens next. Are they still just friends on the other side of the doors to this club? Are they still just past enemies, for some godawful reason still together through all this shit of the last year? Are they going to pretend this never happened and keep doing whatever it is they’ve been doing for the last few weeks? Falling apart to put each other back together.

One hand absently picks up a curl, wraps it around fingers and he remembers the feel of them washing shampoo through his hair when he was immobile. This time when he tilts and nudges, Billy raises his face to look into the wishing well of his eyes, “I mean, I didn’t call the last round, so, uh…” his face is lifted into a cocky smirk and Billy has only one way to wipe it off of him. Charging into his lips aggressively enough that his head smacks against the wall behind him and a startled grunt gets forced out of his mouth and lands on Billy’s tongue.


	20. Satin Surfaces

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Steve

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sexual Content

Satin Surfaces 

There’s more than a moment’s hesitation once they’re finally in the room with the door shut behind them. Steve wants to touch. Every inch of flesh, every scar, every part of Billy’s body that’s ever been bruised. Every part of him that’s stronger now in spite of all the things that’ve been done to him. 

But he hesitates. He hesitates because he’s afraid. Afraid to be too soft, too gentle. To push Billy away by wanting to make him feel wanted, appreciated. Beautiful.

His smirk is cocky. And it’s hiding all the broken things behind it. 

“I don’t know what I’m doing,” is the first thing Steve breathes, gently towards him before either of them can turn lights on or step out of their shoes. Or break their bodies away from one another where the’ve fused themselves together. Chest to chest. The way back was stumbling and clumsy. The make-out in the elevator was intense enough that both of them were adjusting hard-ons in their already damp-fronted jeans. 

And now his hand has stalled on Billy’s back, fingers splayed but still. He’s not longer pressing him close or holding him in place. He’s turned into a statue, a statue of some idiotic animated prince holding the peasant girl right before the clock strikes midnight and the spell is broken.

“News flash King Steve,” he smells like cigarettes and sex, “no one does.”

He’s paused too. Like he’s afraid to take the next step. Like he thinks Steve is going to give up and walk away. Once his clothes are off and all the barriers are gone, once they’re naked together in a sexual manner opposed to all the times they’ve been naked around each other before, it’ll change things. It’ll change things and it’ll be irreversible. Steve doesn’t care, he doesn’t want to go back to how they were months ago or even days ago. He wants to taste the salt of his flesh. He wants his fingertips to know Billy’s body in a way no one else ever has. He wants to hear it again, that sound he made when he was coming. That grunt like it was pulled deep from some undiscovered cavern. 

And he wants to know too. He wants to know everything that’s ever happened to him. Around him. Because of him. He wants to know what he thinks. What he likes. Now that Steve’s seen the real Billy under the brash and violent facade, he wants to know more about him. He wants to know everything about him. 

When his fingers skim over the hem of his wife-beater, Billy’s breath catches, he expects him to pull away, to do what he was doing with that guy downstairs. Instead his eyes flick over to meet Steve’s, a flash of permission across the surface of the only sea that can glitter without the sun. 

He hears himself take a deep breath, lifting the shirt as Billy’s arms rise and allow him to pull the cotton over his head. He watches as his curls settle back into place against his neck and shoulders. Following the jut of his collarbone, down his chest and landing on the scar. 

He watches Billy’s ribcage as it expands and contracts. He watches his hand slide over his chest, trace his scar, push his hand into it. Flat-palmed while his breath catches and he leans down. The satin surface of him, of his battle wound, it’s smooth and delicate. 

When Steve’s lips contact the edge of it, Billy’s entire body shudders. Hands falling, sliding along his sides to land on his hips. Holding him in place while his lips travel the full surface of the scar. Around the edge. Slow spirals towards the center of it where he lingers. His gaze drifts up to Billy’s face, expecting a smirk or an amused eyebrow lift like Steve is an idiot for wanting to touch, kiss, and explore. Instead, he’s met with Billy’s eyes closed, face calm. Features lax and open. Steve’s stomach flutters and his hands move to Billy’s jeans. Unfastening them as his face remains on his chest, breathing against him and watching goosebumps mottle the flesh around the scar. 

Every dip of muscle and every pillow of flesh. Every line of his golden skin and the soft blonde hair that grows more course the further towards his groin Steve’s lips travel. Billy’s hands have found a resting place on Steve’s shoulders, lying there open and unguarded.

He almost reminds him that he has no idea what he’s doing, but Billy doesn’t seem to care. Billy seems to be lost in some blissful state of barely conscious. Maybe it’d be easier to do this if he was laying down, but Steve doesn’t want to interrupt. So he takes a deep breath, remember the best blow job he’s ever received and slides his mouth down Billy’s hard cock. He’s never had a dick in his mouth before, never wanted it. But this feels different than just a body part entering an orifice. The weight of it is perfect on his tongue, the smooth of his delicate skin and the complete lack of pressure from Billy. He’s just standing there. Silent and yearning, and he’s not going to push anything at all. 

Steve swirls his tongue around the tip of it and Billy’s fingers clamp down tighter on his shoulder. He doubts Billy is very vocal in bed, he’s not every vocal about anything unless he’s pissed off, so he’ll have to read his physical cues. 

Sliding down the length of it, so the thing is, Steve’s a guy. He’s a guy who has had blow jobs and he knows a good one is better than a bad one but a bad one is still good. It’s a mouth on a dick as long as no one does anything completely uncalled for, then it’s going to be good. And as long as there’s some kind of physical attraction, or, well, that’s not even necessary all the time. The receiver can always just close his eyes and picture someone else.

Steve gets a twisted feeling in his gut when he wonders if Billy is doing that right now. Pulling his head back until just the tip of his dick is against his lips, aiming his gaze towards Billy’s face. Billy’s face that is aimed toward him now, looking intently with a softness lingering in the set of his mouth that Steve’s never seen before. His hand lifts off Steve’s shoulder, slides up to cradle the back of his head and he nods. A silent cue to keep going, he’s doing fine. And just in case he didn’t catch that, he mutters, “you look good like that Pretty Boy,” it’s supposed to sound gruff, but it doesn’t.

Steve coughs out a laugh, averts his gaze, listens to Billy’s grunted laugh cascade around him and gets back to work. With Billy’s hand, undemanding, still resting on the back of his head, and the sound of each muttered gasp and grunt echoing around the room, it doesn’t take as long as Steve thought it would. Maybe he’s got some skills. 

Billy jerks out of Steve’s grasp, hauling him up by his armpits and bunches Steve’s shirt around this cock to come into it. Which, Steve is kind of grateful for, he’s not ready to have cum in his mouth yet. And really, does anyone like having it on their face? There was a girl once, insisted she did, she wanted it on her face, but it just seemed so wrong to Steve. 

His forehead bumps against Steve’s as the last of his orgasm spills into the shirt that gets dragged over Steve’s head soon there after. In the split second that Billy’s forehead isn’t against his, he hears a whine of some sort pull itself from his throat at the loss of contact.

Billy sighs out a laugh in response, his lips quick to dart into Steve’s to force any more noise to stay put. His arm wraps around Steve’s bare upper body, hauls him close while his tongue tangles with Steve’s until the breath is stolen from his body. When he breaks for air, Billy’s hands are quick to remove his jeans, his hands rough and needy, fingers wrapping around Steve’s cock immediately with a grin quirking his lips as they drop to Steve’s neck, “nice,” it’s mumbled and half choked off and he’s quick to drop to his knees in front of Steve. Getting lips and tongue on his dick like it’s something he’s been wanting for a long time.

“Oh shit,” it’s his own voice as Billy goes to the base of his dick, and the heat and wet of his throat starts sending urgent messages to Steve’s brain. Or his balls. Probably his balls. 

His head falls back without him telling it to, thunking hollowly against the wall next to the door. They didn’t make it far into the room.

One hand is flat on Steve’s belly, the other is cupping his balls, fingers moving in some kind of rhythm to his sucking and it’s about enough to drive Steve right off that ledge that the make-out way back in the elevator set him on, “okay, okay, okay,” he gasps, tapping on Billy’s shoulders to get him to pop off, but he doesn’t, “okay,” he repeats louder, but it’s broken and pained like he’s mourning the loss of Billy’s mouth and he’s not even moved it yet. 

“It’s,” it stutters in the air between them and spurs Billy on to tug harder with his mouth, “I,” his eyes are open now, searching through the dimness of the room to find Billy’s face, but it’s buried in Steve’s groin, and he’s, “Billy,” it’s a plea. All it serves is to make Billy hum an affirmative like he knows exactly what’s about to happen and he wants it, “shit,” Steve’s fingers have found his hair and they tighten around the ringlets, but he forces himself not to pull as that hot tingle of orgasm starts surging through his body. 

Blood rushes in his ears so hard that he can’t hear the sounds Billy makes as he spills down his willing throat. His fingers release in his hair, but linger there anyway, “wow,” he hears himself breathe. Just barely. Slowly becoming more aware of his surroundings again, of the feel of Billy’s hand and mouth retracting away from him, but his body adjusting, rising to box Steve in against the wall, his lips leaving prints on his neck, across his jaw, and forehead meeting forehead for a deep breath before it’s warm, wet lips against lips again. Gentle, slow, with just as much give as take. 

Without verbal communication, they both step the rest of the way out of their jeans. Leaving the pile of underwear and dried cum on the floor, along with the soiled shirts as the careful choreography carries them to the bed. 

Billy’s body halts for a moment when he makes contact with the bed. Like he’s not sure he can bear parting their contact, and Steve’s not sure he can either. His hands fall to Billy’s hips, gripping him close before releasing. Letting him scramble back on the bed while he leans over him at the same time. He takes a moment to appreciate the way the pillow cradles his head, hair splayed on top of the starchy white pillowcase. What are the chances that some one like Billy look so godawful angelic? 

He feels a smile rising on his face before he dips his body weight over Billy, allowing them to slot together as their lips do the same. Propping some weight on his arms that he’s tucked along Billy’s sides. Billy’s legs have wrapped themselves up with Steve’s.

His lips are getting tingly and numb, but he doesn’t want to stop, can’t bring himself to stop. He’s not sure what he’s afraid of, if he thinks Billy will be gone in the morning. Or if he thinks the Upside Down will swallow them whole before they get a chance to say any of the things that maybe they should say instead of communicating with their lips and tongues with languid strokes and tender drags. 

Billy’s hands feel safe, assuring, and strong against his back. One on his shoulder-blade, the other on the small of his back. He can feel his body moving up and down with Billy’s breathing, a lulling motion that has him thinking of gentle waves lapping against shore. Steve feels a lazy smile rise on his lips between kisses, he’s drowned before and he supposes drowning in Billy Hargrove can’t be as bad as the real thing.

—————————

When he wakes the next morning, or maybe it’s only a few hours later, he’s not really sure. He knows there’s light reaching through the curtains where they’re parted to the outside world. He knows he slept like a dead person for the amount of time he slept. And his lips are still aching and throbbing from brushing against Billy’s scruffy face for so long.

He also knows that Billy is still there. He’s still there, right under Steve’s cheek. Under his hand and mostly tangled in his limbs. He’s knows Billy is awake and he can feel his fingers playing through his hair, his breath quiet and light. 

Steve drags a slow inhale, not bothering this time to adjust his morning wood away from Billy. Pressed between them with no clothing.

He’s not really sure how to break the ice this morning. He should probably at least say, “morning,” it’s sleep gruff.

“Mornin’,” it sounds like he’s been awake for hours. 

Steve unfurls his limbs, letting some feeling race back to his tingly fingertips, curls back into the heat of Billy’s chest, placing a hand over his scar, tracing the edges of it, “didn’t sleep well or what?”

“Slept fine,” his hand drags along Steve’s back, sliding down his side, wrapping fingers around his hip.

He almost does something stupid, like ask Billy if he wants to talk about whatever kept him awake, or whatever woke him early. But Billy’s hands are getting demanding on Steve’s body, repositioning him to line up their pelvises. Steve just goes with it, since every time his hard dick slides along Billy’s bare flesh it races lightning through his spine. 

Billy grunts, drawing Steve closer until he can wrap his legs around his hips, holding his body in place with his hands on Steve’s ass. The grind forces a moan out of Steve’s throat. 

His sleep fogged brain is tingling with sex, and coming fully alive with the feeling of Billy’s legs wrapped around his hips. Something he never imagined before and never knew could feel so amazing. 

Turning his face, he’s met with Billy’s chest, breathing against him, watching goosebumps rise while their pelvises continue a sweet grind guided by Billy’s hands on Steve’s ass. At first the dry rub of the dicks together is teetering on the edge of painful thorough the bursts of pleasure. Then Billy’s hand disappears from Steve’s ass, bringing it to his mouth for some spit, sliding between their bodies and wrapping around both of them. 

Steve’s eyes roll back in his head and he’s glad his face is hidden from Billy’s gaze, certain he looks ridiculous right now. Between sleep hair, morning breath, and the edge of insanity brought on by Billy’s everything; Steves’s no catch.

With some kind of fucked up mind reading skills that have suddenly kicked in or something, Billy’s gruff voice demands, “get up here Pretty Boy,” while his free hand slips up his back, through his hair, across his jaw, knuckles to chin pushing his face out of his chest. 

“I,” Steve starts.

“Don’t give a shit about morning breath,” Billy cuts him off, closing the distance between their lips. 

He certainly doesn’t give a shit about morning breath, and even if it’s sour and tangy, the good of the feeling outweighs the taste of it. The taste that still has distinct undertones of Billy. And maybe it’s the taste of him that pushes Steve over the edge once again, in the grip of Billy’s hand, with the rhythm of his thrusts and the feeling of his cock alongside Steve’s. He feels Billy’s pulsing orgasm toppling over in synch with his own. The kiss is broken by tortured gasps and his head finds it’s way back into Billy’s neck while his body collapses entirely on top of him. 

“Wow,” is the first coherent thing he can get passed his lips. The sticky pool of cum between them, trapped by their bellies and chests. If anyone had asked Steve a year ago, or two years ago when he first laid eyes on Billy that this is where he’d end up, he’d have told them they were fucking insane. Though maybe, he sighs when he runs a ringlet through his fingers, things in the last couple years have been much stranger than whatever this feeling is that’s been growing between them. And maybe, when he’s not sure what’s Rightside Up and what’s Upside Down, maybe the one thing that he can be certain of, is the feeling of Billy in the solid space around him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We're definitely going to get to know Billy's mom soon. Thanks friends!


	21. Something Worth Loving

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Billy

Something Worth Loving

Billy feels his jaw clench and his stomach turn to steel as Steve coasts the Camaro into a parking spot on the curb. His vision blurs, hands balling into fists. 

He asked where to when they pulled out of the hotel. Billy told him anywhere. But now they’re parked in front of his mother’s house. His mother. The house she shares with her new family. The family she made after she never came back for Billy. 

The muscles in his legs are twitching and there’s little balls of sparked rage bouncing and colliding in his lids when he closes his eyes, trying to breathe. Steve’s eyes are on his, he can feel them like a spider crawling over his flesh, prickling his skin on the contact. His hand slips from the gearshift to Billy’s leg and Billy jolts out of the car.

Blind with frustration, unable to speak, unable to find the words in his own mind to even try to explain any of this to that privileged idiot that drove them here. That fucking asshole who maybe never had parents who loved him but at least they never hit him or belted him or abandoned him. Just to start over somewhere else with someone else. Someone who was better and nicer and listened harder and obeyed. Someone who did their homework without complaining and never hit their friends or their schoolmates. Someone who never stepped out of line. 

He’s around the hood of her before his mind can catch up to what his body is doing. He’s yanking the door open even as Steve is stepping out. He’s fisting the front of his shirt and dragging him the rest of the way out only to shove him back against the side of the car. Leaning in close to his face, the words, words that’ll cut, words that’ll threaten, words that’ll make Steve quiver get stuck in the back of his throat. 

Steve’s dark chocolate pools, round and calm are stuck on Billy’s eyes. He’s not afraid of him. Steve is not afraid of Billy. His stomach twists when he remembers the way it felt when his fist connected with that pretty face. 

His breath shudders and his fists refuse to open, Steve’s face is calm, his body rigid, maybe preparing for a blow to the gut. His mouth opens to speak, and Billy’s grasp releases on his shirt, shaking his body once, drawing his fist back to slam it against the car window beside Steve’s ribs. Steve doesn’t even flinch. And as easy as it always looks on TV, the glass window of a car might as well be a brick wall. Sending bursts of white hot pain from the edges of his knuckles, the flats of his fingers and through his hand, wrists and up his arm. Exactly the bruising pain that jolts words out of his mouth, words he meant to speak a moment ago, words that were lodged there, but now that they’re finally free of the ball in his chest they trickle out in a broken huff of something much softer than he meant to say, “what the fuck are we doin’ here?”

Like he’s wounded and betrayed instead of pissed off. Like the trust he placed in Steve in the last year is shattered just like that. 

Steve’s eyes haven’t left Billy’s. He hasn’t moved, hasn’t breathed, hasn’t done a damn thing. Billy’s not sure what would piss him off more right now, Steve being still and frozen in place or Steve getting up in his face and challenging his anger. 

“We’re here,” Steve finally shrugs, his voice a quiet statement in a sea of Billy’s uncertainty, “it’s worth a shot,” his hand is rising, Billy can see it from the corner of his eye. He feels is slide across his face, down his chest, lingering there over his heart snd something bites hot and quick at the base of his stomach. He’s leaning his face into Steve’s chest without realizing he’s doing it, not until Steve’s sigh ruffles his hair and his arms both fall around Billy to not embrace him, but protect him from the outside world. 

Billy’s died on the tentacle of a spider monster, facing his mother can’t be as bad. He takes a deep breath, finds his arms wrapping around Steve’s waist and some moisture rising from his eyes. He presses it against Steve’s t-shirt and pretends it’s not happening. He knows Steve won’t mention it, won’t call him a pussy for crying. Won’t tell him to toughen up and act like a man. Won’t tell him to grow the fuck up already and face his problems. 

He lets him hide there for a long moment, drags his face out of his chest with a knuckle under his chin. A gentle demand that Billy is okay with following. His eyes are soft, the light of the desert sun sparking them like polished stones washed up on shore, his voice gentle, but commanding at the same time, “don’t ever raise your fist to me again.”

Billy’s initial instinct is to bark out a ‘yes sir,’ but Steve is not Neil. Instead he nods, leans his forehead in, unable to say the words, ‘I’m sorry’, for now this will have to do. 

Steve’s hands slide up his back, a casual caress, until they reach his hair, burrow beneath the curls and find the back of his head. Holding him in place. His breath soft, easy against Billy’s lips, “this is going to be really hard. But we’re here. Now. And I’m with you, no matter what happens, okay?”

He doesn’t have to ask, he doesn’t have to sound like a pathetic toddler on his first day of preschool, begging his parent to come with him. He doesn’t have to ask, because Steve is offering. Steve is offering to be there for Billy. Having Steve’s trust and dedication is a harder pill to swallow than having the animosity and hate that he’s used to receiving from the people in his life. He’s made it that way for so long, so long to keep himself safe from caring. From having someone look at him the way Steve does. If there’s no one to care about, then there’s no one that can abandon him. Pushing everyone away before they can walk away. It’s always been easiest.

He wants to ask Steve why. Why is he doing this? Why does he care? Is he really just that self-sacrificing? Or is he really just that bored? If they were still in Hawkins, he’d think Steve was slumming it to piss off his dad. There’s got to be a reason, something simple and stupid. Something to explain all this, all the shit Steve’s done for him in the last year. All the shit he keeps doing and all the ways he’s inserted himself into Billy’s life. 

He leans away from the heat of his forehead, the hot desert sun immediately filling the empty space but it’s not the same. A deep breath of Steve’s exhale, holding his gaze only to find the one answer that matters right there written in the way he’s looking at Billy. Like Billy is something worth fighting for. Billy is something worth loving. 

———————

He’s sweating and his stomach is queasy by the time he finally gets up the nerve to walk over there. They’ve been standing in the sun, baking in the heat for about an hour when he finally got his feet to move under him. Steve’s right behind him. His hand on the small of his back as a reminder that he’s not alone. 

Heart pounding so hard it’s likely to break his already broken ribcage, it’s echoing in his ears and his hands are shaking. Vision jumpy and dulling at the edges. Like everything in the center is too bright and the ring around it keeps fading to black. 

A deep breath that chokes off in his chest, the feel of Steve’s hand on his back, “take your time,” reassuring through the rush in his ears.

His teeth clamp down on the inside of his cheek, and his hand, maybe because it’s gotten bored of standing here doing nothing, darts out and knocks on the door. His eyes frantically look over to Steve, feeling a panicked expression on his face. Steve only nods, a reassuring smile playing at the corners of his mouth. That reassuring smile that he used to get from his mom, never from his dad.

A very light breath makes it’s way past his constricted throat while his eyes linger on Steve’s face. The door opens and he feels his body lurch back, against the pressure of Steve’s hand that’s remained on his back even when people could see it there, could see it and know they’re fags.

“Can I help you?” the voice barely makes itself heard over the rushing in Billy’s head, in his body and he’s certain all around him in the air. The voice that’s been firmly planted in every lobe of his brain since before he even breathed his very first breath of air. The voice that used to sing him lullabies, used to coo at him about what a perfect boy he was, used to tell him it was okay to fall down as long as he got back up, it was okay to lose as long as he tried, it was okay to only feel at home in the ocean.

His gaze is stuck on Steve’s and he’s certain he won’t be able to look at her, won’t be able to speak to her without losing his patience, his mind, and his control over his fists. But Steve nods again, that same reassuring one he did earlier and it falls around Billy’s shoulders like a warm blanket on a cold night. Feeling his eyes drag over to meet hers. The mirror image of his own. Her mouth twists, her hands dart over her heart, tears springing to her eyes and she breathes, “Billy.”

But when she takes a step towards him and her hand extends, he jolts back, ducking her contact. Knowing it’ll be too much, it’ll sting with the last nine years worth of hurts and aches that he had to endure in her absence. It’ll burn with all the hugs she didn’t give him. It’ll scorch through his soul with all the promises she spoke but never kept.

Steve is suddenly between Billy and his mother, a protective barrier from her touch while his hand remains on Billy’s hip, “hi, I’m Steve,” his right hand extends to shake hers, “Billy’s boyfriend. And you’re Billy’s mom. We came kind of a long way to see you, but he’s going to need a minute. May we…”

“Come in,” her voice is breathy and shocked, trying to rein her emotions in and stop herself from reaching out to touch Billy again. Her hand looks small in Steve’s and Billy remembers it being big, bigger than his own but narrow and soft. He remembers the last time he compared his hand to hers, pressing palm to palm and her fingers bent over his, telling him he still had a ways to go but he’d get there soon. Then she didn’t stick around to see it happen, “of course. Come in,” she takes a step to the side, opening her arm to motion them in.

Steve hesitates, “actually what I was going to ask was maybe a seat on the porch for awhile.”

“Oh, yes, of course,” her hand slides over her cheek, flicking away a few tears that have fallen. Her eyes are on Steve, have been since he started talking. Maybe she’s afraid to look at Billy, afraid of what she’ll see. All the years apart and the time he grew up without her. Grew up with Neil. Maybe turned into him.

He takes a deep breath, the first one that makes it past the back of his throat as he watches her take a step out of the house. Steve’s fingers tighten on his hip and press him towards the table and chairs on the porch beside them. He pulls out a seat when Billy gets his feet to thaw from the floor beneath him. Steve waits until Billy sits down but he’s not going to let him push the chair in like Billy’s some bitch. He clears his throat and tugs it in towards the table himself. Now a definable, solid item between him and his mother. Steve’s hand slides across his shoulders as he walks past him to take the chair on the far side from the door.

“Can I get you some water, or,” her voice breaks off, eyes landing on Billy’s face, ringed in pain and longing, “I’ll get you some water. And maybe something to eat. Please excuse me for a moment,” she backs away slowly, watching Billy all the while as though he’s going to disappear right in front of her face, like he won’t be here when she comes back out. 

He wants to disappear, maybe more than he’s ever wanted to in his life. Steve’s hand squeezes on his knee, pulling his attention towards him, “hey, you faced the Mind Flayer, I think you can handle this lady,” his smile is casual, his eyes are intense. 

His hands fumble for his smokes, keeping his eyes trained on Steve while he lights it. Steve’s eyes only drop to his lips when he exhales. Blowing it away from his face, but not to be polite, it’s because he doesn’t want to obstruct his view of that pretty face when he asks, “you, uh, introduced yourself as my boyfriend. You mean that?” 

It sounds so pathetic coming out of his mouth that he drops his gaze, even though Steve’s cheeks are turning a little pink and his face is becoming a smile, Billy’s convinced he’ll say he didn’t mean it, it was just some kind of slip or something. 

Those hands that travelled every inch of Billy’s flesh last night so effortlessly, they reach out and take a gentle hold on his chin to aim his gaze, “yes. I meant it.”

Billy’s stupid enough to believe it. To let himself believe it. It won’t last. King Steve will take off and head back to Hawkins to pine for Nancy as soon as he sees the worst Billy has to offer. As soon as he sees all the way into Billy’s twisted life and his fucked up past. It’ll be too much for him. 

He releases Billy’s face and nods again, like he already knows all the shit Billy’s thinking, and he’s already seen all the most terrible parts of him so nothing could shock him now. Maybe that’s true. And maybe when Billy’s hand falls to rest on the arm of the chair, he passes it over to find Steve’s leg, to find his hand where it’s resting on his thigh, and to tangle fingers into fingers.


	22. You Weren't Safe With Me

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Curveball: Christine (Billy's mother)

You Weren’t Safe With Me

Christine pushes the door closed behind her, leaning heavily against it, trying to control the thudding of her heart at the sight of her son. Her son. Her breath catches and tears swell in the back of her throat, rising quickly, spilling over uncontrollably. He’s not a boy anymore. He’s a full grown man. And she missed out on that. 

Body trembling as she wipes at her cheeks, listening to her children who are playing in the living room. She’s going to have to introduce them, but not now. Not when he’s just appeared out of thin air in her life. She thought she’d lost him, and she wouldn’t blame him if he hated her. He should hate her. She’s done the inexcusable, the unthinkable, the unforgivable. She’s abandoned her child. Left him with a man she knew was abusive. But he was better off there. With him. 

Her throat closes, bringing her fists up to rub into her eyes, forcing a hard swallow and her feet to move. Towards the kitchen. Gathering the water glasses and a tray of snacks, it’s lunch time but she’s not sure what her son likes to eat. She’s not sure what his boyfriend likes to eat. These simple things that she should know about him, about them, they’re out of reach. 

“Mommy?” Clarissa’s voice breaks into her ears through the rushing of blood and racing thoughts, regrets and doubts tangling up in her mind. 

Setting the knife down, wiping the back of her hand over her damp cheeks, “yes?”

“Are you okay?” her wide eyes, concerned under dark lashes.

Christine kneels in front of her, “of course.”

She shrugs her narrow shoulders, “but the fountain is weeping.”

“It’s okay sweetheart,” voice shaking, reaching for her daughter, “happy tears,” it’s only a partial lie. Holding Clarissa to her chest, her eyes drift towards the window, vision clinging to the boy she abandoned so long ago. He’s leaning back, keeping a carefully uninterested expression on his face, but Christine knows the eyes, she knows the set of those shoulders, and she remembers a few things about that boy that’ll never change. His boyfriend is talking to him, keeping his voice low and calm, reassuring. 

At least he’s not alone. At least he has a boy who loves him. It’s clear in the way he looks at him and the way he casually touches him. Whoever this boy is, Christine is glad he’s a part of Billy’s life. 

“Okay, go play with your brother. I have visitors outside. If you need me, just come get me. Okay?” she pats Clarissa’s butt, releasing the hug and standing straight. 

She watches the little girl bob her way out of the kitchen, straightens her clothes, grabs the tray of food and refreshments, takes in a long breath to calm her nerves and exits the house to face down the worst decision she’s ever made. He’s found her and she can’t bear to let him go that easily again. 

Steve gets to his feet, holding the door for her. Billy’s hands rise to cup behind his head, appraising her coolly, making the walk across her own porch feel as though she’s walking the plank. And it should feel that way, it should feel worse than that. He has every right to hate her, to never forgive her, to never let her explain. Try to explain. How is it even possible to explain a betrayal like that to a child?

She’ll take it slow, she’ll take the eye contact, even if it’s fleeting, even if it’s laced with the passion of burning resentment, even if it’s pointed and angry. She’ll take the few grunts he offers when she asks him questions, having to translate for herself what’s an affirmative and what’s a negative response. Steve talks, she finds an easy chatter with him, getting to know his hometown, the place Billy has been for about two years. She learns things about her son through his boyfriend and through his expressions that she’s going to memorize. She’s going to drown herself in every contour of his face while he’s here, she’s going to deafen herself with every rise and fall of his breath and with every grunted response he offers. She’s going to envelope herself in his every tic, new and old, her sole focus on this boy that she let slip away from her. 

His surface is so beautiful and his presence is so wounded. She can feel it in the air around them and between them that he’s been through so much already, so much in his short nineteen years. So much that she could have protected him from, and so much more that she would have caused if she’d stayed or if she’d kept him with her. 

When she wipes a tear off her cheek, the silent ones that keep falling, and the fountain trickles, dripping into the pool beneath it, Steve squirms in his seat and she tells him, “the kitchen is to the left when you enter the house, the bathroom is the first left beyond that.”

“Thanks,” he slides out of the chair easily, but hesitates to leave them alone out here. His hand falters on Billy’s shoulder, almost like he wants to take him along so he can spare him the pain of being alone with his mother. 

Billy cranes his head to give Steve a quick moment of eye contact, a silent go ahead. As quickly as the door closes behind him, Billy is to his feet, chewing on the inside of his cheek and walking off the porch. He won’t leave without Steve, but it doesn’t stop the sinking in Christine’s stomach to see the back of his body, to see him retreating. 

“Billy, please,” she hears herself whisper, “please don’t walk away.”

He stops at the base of the sidewalk, turns back towards the house, rage sparked in his eyes when they land on her where she’s moved to the edge of the porch. Keeping her posture open, her face relaxed through the terror that’s gripped cold and tight on her gut. Terror that she’s already lost her only chance. Her only chance to regain this boy’s trust and maybe love.

“I remember holding you for the fist time, how I felt like my heart would never be the same. Like you had some piece of it, but it was still too big to stay in my chest. I remember looking at your tiny face and your big eyes, and you looked at me like you knew me, like we had already been through this, and this was nothing new. You were such a quiet, sweet baby. You rarely cried and it was such a relief, people always talked like a baby was either the worst thing to happen or the best and there was never any middle ground, and you were,” she clears her throat, tripping over words, trying to get something to register in his head, something that’ll link them, that’ll make him remember their bond is unbreakable even if she broke it already but he’s here and that means something, “I was terrified. young and stupid, and I don’t know what Neil told you, I don’t know…”

“He didn’t want me,” his hands are fisted at his sides where he’s paused in the middle of the walkway, “no one did. But you kept me anyway.”

“No,” Christine feels her body rush towards him, like she’ll be able to hold him, wrap her arms around him and hold together all the broken parts of him, all the cracks that have formed, show him that he is wanted, he is loved, and she can do it if he’ll let her. When her hand rises, reaching towards him, his rises too, nearly swatting at her but at the last moment stopping himself, dropping it to shove in his pocket and take a few steps back. Posture defensive.

“I’m sorry,” she apologizes immediately, “I know, it’s not my place to touch you. It’s not…”

“Why?” his voice trembles, through the stance of a young man who is ready to face the world with fisted hands and clenched jaw, “why did you leave me?”

“I,” her voice chokes off, everything she’s practiced in her head for the last decade, hoping she’d lay eyes on him again, hoping she’d find him one day, hoping she’d be able to get a hold of Neil and he’d allow Billy to come back to her, hoping she stood a chance of having him back in her life after abandoning him. All of the words, all the explanations, all the things she should say, could say, they all fail and the truth comes out, “you weren’t safe with me.”

Anger flairs up his spine, snapping his posture straight and taut, a wire about to snap, electricity in the air between them that she can feel shocking her from the inside out, “I wasn’t safe with him either.”

“You don’t understand,” forcing herself to remain calm, deep breaths, even though she can feel the weather changing around her. A dark cloud looming on the horizon. Unsure if it’s from her or from him, from the energy he’s feeding her full of lightning and thunder, ground shattering storms that have been boiling beneath his skin for years.

His face falls from unshakable to disbelief to hurt in the matter of a second. Christine’s stomach twists in response, feeling as though she could cut herself open, lay her heart and soul on the sidewalk between them and he’d take the opportunity to stomp them to smithereens instead of hearing her out.

She doesn’t blame him, it’s what she deserves.

Dimly, she hears the door open and close behind her. Billy doesn’t flinch, his eyes staying on hers, but his head cocking towards the street. Beckoning to Steve that it’s time to leave. 

“I couldn’t control it Billy,” she tells him desperately, “I couldn’t control it back then. You would have been hurt. Leaving you was the only way to protect you, I had to protect you. From them and from myself. I had to,” as she’s speaking she can feel it inside her. Twisting and burning like the living thing that it is, the thing that zaps just beneath her skin and slithers around in her bones. The thing she hadn’t learned to control back then, the thing that could have killed the little boy that’s grown to be a man without her. If she’s not careful now, she’ll lose control again. She’ll end up locked away in a mental institution, being shocked and drooling on herself, “don’t go,” she whispers, “please don’t go,” her focus is only on those blue eyes, the ones that have always conveyed all the words he’d never speak. And right now they’re only conveying pain and betrayal.

He snorts at her, jerking his head towards the street again. She feels Steve moving past her, her hand darting out to grasp him just before the sidewalk in front of him crumbles. It doesn’t sink, she still has the control right now, but the cement breaks, cracking from the center out like a bowling ball being dropped on a thick sheet of ice. 

“You weren’t safe with me,” she repeats it, a drip of blood sliding from her nose down towards her upper lip. 

They’ll fear her now. They’ll not understand. And they’ll leave anyway. 

The next square of cement cracks, fissuring from the corner nearest her son’s booted feet and shaking towards her, taking the block in front of her towards the center, pulling it down. She hears the door open and close again behind her, she hears Clarissa’s voice calling, “Mom,” and she sees Billy’s blue eyes dropping to watch the red blood leaking from her nose. 

She expects fear, she expects his face to twist with confusion and trepidation. She expects him to curse her out, maybe tell her she’s a freak or maybe say nothing at all. Maybe just walk away. 

Instead, there’s a flicker of recognition that passes his sky blue irises and Steve’s voice wonders, “is that, like, a girl power kind of thing only? Or you know any guys that can move and break things with their minds? What’s it called telekin, um, osis?”

“Telekinesis,” Clarissa pipes up from the doorway behind them.

“Yeah, that,” Steve’s arm is still grasped tight in her hand, she feels him move to look over his shoulder, “Hi, I’m Steve.”

“I’m Clarissa, do you want to play in my treehouse?”

She feels him shrug, “sure,” and feels her hand release him. A wave of relief flooding her body, it’s not forgiveness from her son, it’s nowhere near enough, it’s only the beginning, but he’s taking a step forwards. He’s not walking away. She has so much ground to make up for, so much to explain, and all she can ask him for is the time to do it. 

A tear breaks lose and the fountain beside the porch starts dripping again. 

“Is that some kind of Chinese water torture device or something?” she hears Steve ask no one in particular. 

“It’s a fountain,” Clarissa offers, “come on, the treehouse is in back.”

“Why do you call it a treehouse when there are no trees in the desert?”

“There are trees in the desert silly. I’ll show you.”

Billy’s eyes haven’t left hers, the relief still rolling through her body even as the fear of losing him is still firmly rooted, “please stay,” her voice shakes.

His jaw is clenched tight, his movements mostly robotic, the distrust obvious in his face, but he takes another step towards her. He is unafraid. Completely unafraid of her. A knot tightens in her belly when she wonders what he’s seen already that something like this wouldn’t even shake him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't know if the fandom has named Billy's mother yet. But it looks like I have. I also don't really know if there's going to be forgiveness for her, for leaving Billy with Neil, but I'd like to give Billy a chance to make up his mind, get to know her a little bit at least now that he's found her.


	23. More Than Willing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Steve

More Than Willing

“Well,” Steve ducks his shoulder, nudging against Billy’s. He followed him out here for a post-dinner smoke. Sitting on the edge of the porch in the cooling, but still insanely hot, evening air, “what do you think?”

“About you playing pirates with my mom’s kid?” a smirk is tugging at the corner of his mouth.

“Aaarg me hearty,” the kid’s not that bad. Maybe the whole moving to LA and being a nanny for some rich spoiled kid isn’t a bad idea, “I mean, what do you think about your mom?”

He shrugs, face turning away, flicking ash towards the rocks in the garden. 

“What a weird place to build a house. And force a green yard. I wonder how high their water bill is. I bet the whole city is just one giant waste of water. All those fancy hotels and shit with their green lawns and golf courses and stuff.”

“You are very concerned about other people’s water bills.”

“I just,” Steve sighs, leaning his body weight back on his palms behind him, “maybe I’m concerned about…”

Billy’s head turns, his eyebrows lifted like he’s waiting for something stupid to come out of Steve’s mouth. So he shuts up. Can’t say something stupid if he’s not saying anything at all.

“She’s okay,” Billy finally decides to answer the question about his mom, “it’s not like I don’t remember her. She’s not some different person, she’s still,” his voice trails off. 

Steve can read between the lines. She still left him, “you wanna get out of here? Maybe come back tomorrow or somethin’?”

He chews on the inside of his cheek for awhile, mumbles at Steve’s lap instead of Steve’s face, “she invited us to stay. Guess there’s a guest room.”

“You want to? Stay?”

“I don’t know,” taking a long drag of his cigarette, blowing the smoke out slowly, finally refocusing his gaze somewhere that isn’t Steve’s dick maybe. 

“Were you just checking me out through my jeans?”

“No,” he chuckles, “are you really that oblivious that you have to ask?”

“No,” dropping his shoulder into Billy’s again, “oh, I get it. You were looking at my crotch trying to decide if it’s worth going to find a different place to stay so you can get more of me, or if you can pass it up for a night to stay here with your long lost mom who turns out to be telekin, um, whatever. Did anyone ever tell me if guys can do it too? Is it some genetic thing, is that how you actually survived the mall? You have some kind of untapped power that you don’t even realize you have? If it was genetic you’d think you or your siblings would have it, and Clarissa didn’t, no wait. She did. She totally did! She moved that pirate hook with her mind so she could reach it first and I couldn’t have it! Cheater.”

Billy’s face is twisting into a smile, his eyes sparked with softness while he watches Steve’s mouth moving, “I wanna stay. Here.”

“Oh ouch, so you wanna pass up on,” his words are cut off by Billy’s mouth sealing over his. 

————————

“This is better than a hotel,” Steve sighs, flopping on his back on the mattress in the guest room. It’s kinda girly, but the sheets are soft. The family is pretty cool, but he’s not going to share that with Billy, the guy needs to make up his own mind without any influences. And he probably doesn’t want to talk about it, ‘cause it probably hurts that much more to know he could have had this life if she’d taken him with her. 

Propping his head on his bent arms, to gain the angle on Billy where he’s digging through his bag. He grunts something that sounds affirmative, then peels off his shirt, steps out of his pants, shoves both dirty items back in his bag and heads towards the guest bathroom with his toothbrush in hand.

Steve sighs, watches the ceiling while he waits. Listening to the faucet, brushing, then faucet again. The ceiling fan gets clicked up a notch to high, and then Billy appears, hovering over top of him. Hair spilling forward to frame his face, weight shifting until he’s straddling Steve’s hips. 

Reaching up with one hand to wind a curl around his finger and watch it spring back when he lets go, fingertips trailing down the taut line of his arms, tangling in his to bring the back of his hand to his lips. 

He doesn’t seem to be after anything sexual, but he’d also never admit it if he just wanted the physical contact. There’s a jealous stab to his chest when he thinks about how things were with Phillip. If Billy gave him the quiet moments. He said he was in love with him. And love isn’t just about sex. 

The watery surface of those sea blue eyes are scanning over Steve’s face, his internal debate flashing across them while he chews on his cheek. Steve feels his free hand falling, grasping Billy’s and giving him a tug by both hands to pull him down. He gives in immediately. Laying his body chest to chest and his face finding refuge against Steve’s jaw. 

One hand frees itself just to run from the crown of his head down the nape of his neck, following his spine to the small of his back and laying there splayed open, holding him close. 

Steve’s not going to prompt any talking. He’s not going to make him make the words that are going to be too painful to speak right now. He’s already got enough going in his head, enough images of Christine with her husband now, Tom. Enough images of Tom with their son, Danny, and their daughter. And enough evidence in the way they treat each other just from spending one afternoon here, that his life could have been something so different, so much easier, so much more loving and attentive. There’s enough running through his mind and burning itself into his closed lids, Steve’s not going to make him attach words to it just yet. 

But he will lie here, he will lie here with Billy smoothed over top of him like a blanket. He will lie here and let him breathe, let him seek comfort, let him think silently. And if he falls asleep like that, well, he’ll get too heavy eventually but for now it’s good, it’s better than good. It’s Obsession and cigarettes, it’s desert wind through the open window of the Camaro, it’s hotel shampoo clinging to his hair. It’s tight muscles slowly going lax under the strokes of Steve’s hands. It’s breath evening out. It’s a still beating heart that’s been broken way too many times, thudding steady against Steve’s chest. It’s knowing, knowing that fragile boy under all the swagger, knowing the things that’s he’s been through to make him that way. Knowing there’s still so much more to learn. And Steve is willing, more than willing, to learn it.


	24. Please Stay

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Billy

Please Stay

Billy tugs himself out of a nightmare, the same one, nearly every time. It starts the same way. It’s starts in a safe place, a place that should be safe, one that is for most kids. But Billy never was most kids.

The feel of Steve under him, his legs having gone numb and his back aching from being folded in half over him for who knows how long, Steve’s hands open and soft against his spine. He’s snoring, of course he’s snoring, he’s bearing Billy’s full body weight on his frame that’s sunken into the mattress, it’s probably a good thing he’s not what he used to be. He’d have crushed Steve. 

Leaning up on his hands and knees, alleviating the pressure, Steve’s breathing shifts to something softer, less strained but his hands clamp down tighter, pulling Billy towards him again, he mumbles something without opening his eyes, or really his mouth, but it sounds an awful lot like, “don’t go.”

Billy leans forward, watching his face when his hair brushes the edge of his jaw, leaving a lip print on his forehead, “bathroom,” he offers as an excuse while he shifts off the bed. Steve’s hands have turned to bricks on his skin, back to sleep that easily, he rolls towards the empty side of the bed, facing where Billy should be laying. 

The house is quiet, the bathroom echoes with every move he makes. At the sink, he avoids looking in the mirror. He’s not sure what Steve sees when he looks at Billy, but it must be something entirely different than the truth the mirror is reflecting.

Standing in the doorway for a moment to watch the rhythm of his sleep breathing, the way his hand has reached out, flat on the empty space that should be Billy’s chest by now. His features lax and open, the softness of him that even the Upside Down couldn’t file down to bone. 

Tugging a shirt on before he leaves the room, making his way slowly down the hall, telling himself he’s only going for a glass of water. He’s not going to use this time to learn more about the mother who left him, to learn more about the life he could have had. The life she chose not to give him.

Hand shaking as he brings a full glass to his lips, scanning the dim room, catching light from the outside streetlamp and the occasional car still passing by on the street. His eyes scan the bookcases, filled to the gills with novels and children’s books. There are a few old leather bound things that look like they came straight out of an illustration of a witch standing beside a bubbling cauldron. And photos. Framed photos of smiling kids. Of a happy family. 

The glass clinks as he sets it on the counter, moving forward through the kitchen, through the living space towards the photos. Hand shaking when he removes a family photo, taken at some theme park. All four of them, recently, smiling wide with stupid hats on. 

His vision blurs, every wound, every mark that Neil left on his flesh, etched into his skin and bruised into his bones starts echoing through his body. Like they’re brand new. Like they’re fresh. Still bleeding. Still bruising. Still broken. As he slides to his butt on the floor, facing the bookcase, photo in his grip that’s growing clammy. 

He’s not sure how long he’s there before he hears her, padding across the room slowly, like she’s approaching a scared dog that will most likely nip at her hand if she reaches out. She lowers herself to the floor near him, but not close enough to touch, “Billy,” her voice quiet, tones of apology.

He doesn’t want apologies anymore, he doesn’t want excuses. He wants her to hurt. He wants her to see every mark Neil left on his body. He wants her to know, to know every word he ever said, every hate he ever spewed that’s wormed it’s way through Billy’s brain for the nearly two decades of his life with that man. Two decades of his hands, his belt, his fists, his booted foot. None of which ever sliced as deep as his words.

“I hate you,” he hears himself whisper, it doesn’t shake, it doesn’t tremble, it doesn’t lie.

“I know.”

“I don’t want to forgive you.”

“I don’t want you to. I don’t expect you to. You don’t even have to give me a second chance Billy. Leaving you,” her voice chokes off. He can’t look at her. He can’t look away from the happy family captured on film to pad their happy memories with photographic proof, “it’s not forgivable. It’s not. I know that. I was a coward. I should have taken you with me. I was so scared,” her hand twitches, like she’s going to reach for him.

He ducks, flinches and grits his teeth at his reaction. He’s not a pussy. He’s not some weak piece of shit who needs a mother’s hand, or even wants it. Her touch would burn his skin.

She pulls her hand back towards herself, “it’s not an excuse,” she takes a deep breath, “I couldn’t control it back then. It was too much. And every time he’d raise his voice to you, or his hand, I’d lose it and things would start breaking. Things in the kitchen would start flying off the shelves without me lifting a finger, windows would shatter. And he’d take you away, he’d put you in the car and drive away. He made it look like it was for your own protection, and it was, I didn’t know what I was capable of. I believed him when he told me I was a lunatic, I was some kind of witch and I’d get you killed if I stayed. I thought,” her voice chokes off, her hand rises to wipe at her eyes, “I thought I could leave you with Marge, she’s my sister, I thought you’d be safe with her, and I thought she’d keep you away from Neil, I didn’t know,” she trails off, her hand inches closer to Billy’s arm and he tucks it closer to his side, “I found someone here, someone who could teach me, could help me. I was so afraid I’d just end up in a mental institution, and then what would happen to you? And I couldn’t have you here, with me, while I learned. Because what if Neil was right? What if I lost my patience with you and I,” it trembles and fades away before she can finish it.

Clearing her throat, “I know, I know it all sounds like a crock of shit to you, I know I’ll never be able to make it up to you. And I did look for you, I did. I called every single person that I knew that might have any idea where Neil was, where he had taken you. But he, it was like he disappeared and took you with him. I…”

“San Francisco,” Billy hears himself mutter, “then Hawkins.”

He can see her hand rising out of the corner of his eye, lingering there close to him, wanting to touch, wanting to offer some kind of comfort or physical anything. But he doesn’t want it. Especially not from her.

“I’m sorry Billy. I will regret that decision to leave you behind for the rest of my life. I’m so sorry. I know nothing will ever make up for it, or make sense to you, or Hell, even now, knowing that I could control it, and I wouldn’t have hurt you, I just,” she sighs, her hand falls from the space between them and lands on her lap, tucking into her other hand, folding them together to stop them from reaching out, “it all sounds like lame excuses even to my own ears, so to you, it’s, I can’t even imagine,” she lurches forward now, reaching for one of the photo albums, “I don’t want you to forgive me. I don’t expect that you ever will. I just want to get to know you. Now. If you’ll stay for a week or a month, or however long you can, I want that. And you don’t owe me that. I understand if you get up and leave and pretend I never existed,” she’s opening the album and he nearly stops her, wanting to tell her that he doesn’t want to see anymore, he doesn’t want to know anymore, he doesn’t care how happily ever after she’s lived for the last nine years and change. 

“I’ve kept you in their lives,” she says slowly, gently as she opens the cover, revealing a baby photo of him, “your brother and sister. I’ve kept you,” her finger traces over his chubby baby cheeks in the awful getup from the hospital, before she flips the page and it’s a photo of her holding him, shortly after birth, “I never stopped loving you Billy, I never stopped looking for you. I tried to find you,” she taps her head, “but you were so closed off. With every reason, you had and still have every right to hate me and resent me and not let me in, none of this was your fault,” she flips another page. It’s her, Neil, and both sets of Billy’s grandparents this time.

“Don’t forgive me Billy, don’t ever forgive me. Just please,” the sound of her voice drags his eyes to hers, locking on and watching a tear loose itself from the corner, trailing down her cheek, “stay. Please stay.”

———————

The mattress dips beneath his weight, lifting Steve’s hand off his side only to tangle fingers and bring the bundle of calloused skin, warmth and tenderness to his lips. Steve only stirs long enough to push himself closer, closer until his face is nestled against Billy’s jaw. Turning his head to rest lips to forehead, breathing in the undeniable scent of Farrah Faucet hairspray even if Steve would never fess up to it if Billy hadn’t seen it in his bag, he feels a smile lift his lips. He doesn’t know what to make of his mom, he doesn’t know if he wants to stay. Or how long. But the mess in his head mutes itself when Steve’s presence overwhelms him with the desire to just sleep, to join him and just let it all stop. Let it all blur and fade. Let it dream and hope it doesn’t turn into a nightmare like the everything else in his life.


	25. More Important Than Ever

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Christine

More Important Than Ever

There was hesitation, but no more than anything else she’s asked of him, when they first spoke of spending the afternoon at the pool. There’s been small hints in the corners of his mouth at acceptance, tiny lifts that might be considered smiles if she tries hard enough to bend the definition. 

Now Billy is sitting on the ledge of the pool, dark colored t-shirt and swim shorts on. His legs are swaying back and forth in the water while he watches the people around him, scanning the crowd for potential necessity of his lifeguarding skills, and hunching in at his shoulders like he wants to disappear from time to time. 

As a child he was sometimes unpredictable, something he learned from Neil, something etched into him from growing up under the thumb of an abusive man. And a mother who never did enough to protect him. But the one thing she could always count on, was his love of the water. His eagerness to partake in any and all water sports, and swimming. His smiles were never as wide as when they’d spend the day at the beach. Just the two of them, chasing gulls and building sandcastles. She put him in surfing lessons when he was barely able to walk yet, and he took to the board seamlessly. 

This morning when Clarissa brought up the possibility of going to the pool, it seemed like a good idea. It seemed like it’d be a quick way to have some fun, relax, enjoy the sun and each other in a location where there was no pressure. Christine thought that Billy would take to his siblings more quickly if he got to play with them, in a place that he always thrived before. 

But now. Now she’s regretting even mentioning it, much less doing it. Bringing them here. 

Billy looks mostly miserable. Steve’s been lingering close to him, playing with Clarissa, dropping her diving rings for her, even being a good enough sport to ‘learn’ how to do water somersaults. Danny has joined a game of water polo in the pool across the deck.

When Clarissa gets out of the water, trotting off towards the bathroom, is when Steve tucks himself between Billy’s knees. Christine watches as his hands land palm-down on Billy’s lower back, over the t-shirt. His face tilted, looking up towards his eyes, a soft, open, supportive expression. Christine finds herself wishing she could hear their voices, he’s smiling as he speaks. His fingers fiddling with the hem of the shirt. 

Billy shifts, seemingly uncomfortable in his own skin, but Steve’s smile breaks into a grin, his hands start pulling the shirt up as Billy’s body starts sinking off the ledge of the pool towards him. 

Christine’s breath catches, perfect skin of his narrow, strong back getting swallowed by a scar. Forcing her expression to remain peaceful, just in case either of them look her way, she’s not going to show surprise or pity or fear. She’s not going to show any of the things that are tugging at her chest, twisting in her stomach, any of the horrific scenarios that are playing through her mind as images of what could have caused a scar like that start reeling through her mind. 

He’s in the pool, close to Steve, half embraced there, as Steve flings the shirt towards their lounge chairs. The tiled edge of the pool concealing the visual evidence that something impaled her son’s body. She had prepared herself for seeing marks on him, for seeing evidence of trauma that Neil had left behind, his ‘lessons’ that he had to teach his son in order for him to become a man. That nagging voice in her head reminds her she’s a terrible mother, that her beautiful baby never deserved either of them as parents, that he deserved the whole world in all it’s beauty but all they gave him was the world’s ugliness and human failures. 

Her lip trembles, biting down on it until the metallic taste of blood lingers on her teeth. The tingling in her limbs is rising, but she fights it. Watching as a few ripples spread across the surface of the pool where no one has disturbed it, where her anger and self-loathing for the mistakes she made with that boy are starting to make themselves physical.

“Not now,” she reminds herself, taking a deep breath, forcing her eyes to scan over to her daughter where she’s exiting the bathroom with a grin on her face, and a happy wave before she cannonballs into the pool in the deep end. 

Steve’s eyes have flit over to Christine, his hands still braced on the pool ledge on either side of Billy’s body. While Billy’s eyes have most likely left Steve, the look he gives her is very pointed. She removes her sunglasses, wanting nothing to shield them, wanting him to know that she gets his message loud and clear. His message to not make a thing of it, to not mention it, that Billy will talk when he’s ready, and if she pressures him before it’s time, then she’ll have to deal with more than just Billy’s anger. It’ll also be Steve’s. 

She nods at him, acknowledging and accepting his silent demands. Acknowledging and accepting his presence as Billy’s protector. Her breath shakes, this time with something resembling relief, knowing that Billy has that now. Maybe he hasn’t always had it, maybe this is the first time, and maybe it’s new and different territory for them both, but he has it now. Now, when maybe it’s more important than ever. 

————————

“He’s good with children,” Christine mutters towards her son, where he’s sat down beside her, covered again with cotton. He stuck close to Steve in the pool, avoiding any lingering gazes on his marks by going in the deep end, pulling a towel around his body as soon as he was out in the open.

Billy grunts something similar to agreement, looking on to where Steve is on the ledge of the pool with Clarissa, watching a diving ring drop into the deepest end of the pool. The water running down them in rivulets. 

He’s good with you too, she thinks it but wouldn’t dare say it. It makes it sound like Billy is a baby bird with a broken wing, and he is anything but. 

They seem to be having a stand-off, for who will jump back in to retrieve the florescent yellow ring that has sunk in the nine feet of water. Steve’s hands prop themselves on his hips, Clarissa mirrors it, then sticks out her tongue and he dives in. 

Billy snickers beside her. Holding his breath, watching intently at the bubbles rising where Steve disappeared, only exhaling when his head crests the water. Hand rising to thumb at his lip, tucking it between his teeth, itching for a smoke. 

“I want to hear it all,” she blurts before she has time to think it through. His eyes don’t meet hers, they stay trained on his boyfriend, “someday. Billy, I want to hear it all someday. When you’re ready.”

His jaw clenches, unclenches, clenches again. The blue of his irises reflecting the light that’s reflecting off the pool, making them seem completely void of color, darting across her face for a moment. Just one moment. Just to check her sincerity in that statement. She hopes he finds it. She hopes he can find everything he’s looking for in her. In his mother. The things she should have been for him for his entire life. 

She finds herself exhaling the breath she didn’t realize she was holding when he nods.


	26. Flushed Pink, Lips Tortured

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Steve

Flushed Pink, Lips Tortured

Steve sighs, watching Billy stepping out of his jeans and tossing them across the room. He’s proud of him for taking off his shirt at the pool, for getting to know his mom, and his siblings. But he can’t tell someone like Billy that.

Instead, he opens his arm to him when he starts getting closer like he’s not sure what lines are okay to cross and what’ll get him belted. Steve wraps his arms around him when he settles, tugging hm closer to his chest, leaning in to breathe the scent of chlorine from his curls, “she’s not so bad, is she?”

A grunt. His breath trailing across Steve’s bare skin, raising goosebumps as his fingers rise, stroke gently across Billy’s arm, feeling the wiry muscles under his fingertips, tracing up to his shoulder and back down. Billy melts with it. Maybe if Steve had known his best weapon against Billy Hargrove was a gentle touch, they could have avoided the entire rivalry. Since he’s there, he decides he might as well press his lips against his head.

“No, she’s not bad,” it’s muffled against Steve’s skin. And maybe knowing she’s not bad just makes it all that much worse for him. 

Steve’s fingers move across his shoulder, finding the softness of his hair and wrapping a tendril around his index, slipping his middle finger over each strand, back and forth, back and forth. Billy’s subconscious starts following the pattern, and rhythm set by Steve’s fingers, copying it against the hem of his boxers. It is distracting as hell, having his fingers that close, having his presence right on top of him, and not having the part of the physical contact that is starting to make itself very well known in Steve’s boxers and Billy is blatantly ignoring it. 

He’s silent for so long that Steve starts to think he’s somehow asleep with his fingers still moving. Starting to think he’ll have to find a way to slide out from underneath him, take care of matters in the bathroom. 

A deep breath flutters across Steve’s bare chest, and his hand slips up the leg of his boxers. Fingers gently wrapping around his dick, and Steve might let out a very undignified and unguarded groan of relief mixed with instant pleasure at the contact Billy offers.

He snorts, face appearing in Steve’s line of sight, with a cocky smirk and a sparkle across his irises. Steve abandons his hair-playing for taking a hold of this face instead, guiding him to his lips to wipe that smirk right off his face. He doesn’t bother holding back, letting every ounce of everything that he can’t say, that he can’t find words for just yet, pour into Billy’s mouth from his by way of eager dives and sweeping strokes. Pressing fingers of his free hand into the small of Billy’s back until he drags himself out of the cocoon of Steve’s side, the kiss getting sloppy when he adjusts his body, knees to either side of hips. Tracing fingers over the waistband of his boxers, sliding a testing finger over the barn door to find a fully hard Billy underneath his touch. 

Billy’s hand that was planted beside Steve’s head, makes quick work of freeing himself from the cotton prison before doing the same with Steve’s cock. He grinds down against him, forcing a tingle to skitter across Steve’s belly, up his chest and exit his mouth in the form of a groan that gets swallowed by Billy. Only to be returned with his own voice of pleasure as he grips them both with a practiced, and perfectly calloused hand. 

Every time he grinds, every time his cock drags alongside Steve’s, it sends impulses of wanting more. Wanting more and the nagging of not knowing what else there is, being a completely clueless idiot again. 

Billy’s hand disappears to grab spit from his mouth, returns to the task at hand, and Steve wonders if he should flip them. If he should go down on Billy with the hunger that he feels budding in his chest, the hunger to have every part of him taste-tested, to have every part of his body burned into Steve’s corneas from up close, to have it all mixed and mingled into tangled hair and sweat slicked skin. To have it all come apart in gasps, and chokes, and uttered nonsense against his palms, in his mouth, and, “Billy,” he hears himself choke out against his lips. 

“Already?” a teasing edge to his voice that does nothing to cover the raw ache beneath. 

Steve’s deep breath shakes, opening his mouth to tell, or ask, or wonder what the fuck he’s supposed to do because he has no goddamn clue and Billy looks so confident. And beautiful. He can’t tear his eyes off him, and he wants to destroy him, but put him on a pedestal and worship the very ground he walks on. 

He feels his body surging forward, taking control before his brain can catch up. A common feeling in Steve’s life. He’s scrambling out from under Billy with certainty in his movements even if he doesn’t feel it in his head, his head can just shut the fuck up and quit doubting him. He’s not flipping them, he’s not keeping them face to face. He’s planting himself behind Billy, watching the curve of his ass, the indentations of his waist, pushing with both hands to get him where he wants him. He wants him on his hands and knees and he wants to watch his head when his neck drops and his back muscles tighten around that scar. He wants to watch his ribs when they expand with a gasp. When his cock throbs in Steve’s hand as Steve thrusts himself into his thighs, holding them tight around him while he slides in and out against the bare skin of him, his soft golden hairs and watches himself disappear in that crevice. 

Steve watches his hand slide down Billy’s spine, feeling each knob under his fingertips, palm on the cleft of his ass, his thumb dipping further into the crack and circling the delicate skin there. He hears Billy grunt, feels him tighten his thighs, his hands gripping the sheets with white knuckles. 

He doesn’t push into him, he keeps the steady pressure of his thumb tracing circles around him. Feels Billy pressing back into his hand like he wants more, but this is something they’re going to have to talk about first. This is something they’re going to need more than just spit for. This is something they’ll need a rubber for. And this is something that needs to happen when it’s just them in the house. And time. 

He watches Billy’s muscle lines in the darkness of the room and he thinks he’ll need more light, broad daylight when they go further than this. When they have the time. He wants to watch the sunlight play with every golden hue of Billy, he wants to watch his fingers trail slippery sweat across every plain of his body. He wants to watch the pink that rises in his cheeks and splotches his chest. He wants to be able to see every shade of the ocean in Billy’s eyes.

When he spits in his hand, he watches Billy coil in what he hopes is anticipation, but the spit slicked hand returns to his cock. While the other dips further into his ass crack, gently caressing without penetrating. 

He moves his hand in the same steady motion of his hips. Focuses on the feel, the friction between Billy’s thighs, lets his eyes wander to where he can see himself disappearing into Billy without really being inside Billy. It aches in his belly when the thought of being inside Billy snakes through his mind, watching his thumb circle another round and wanting, wanting so badly to feel it, to feel it with his fingers, with his mouth, with his cock. 

Not yet.

His breath shudders and Billy pushes back against him, urging him on. Grip tightening on Billy’s cock, twisting his wrist, mimicking the grip he likes on his own cock. Letting the different weight, feel, and slide of him in Steve’s hand take root in his mind. While he watches his body flex, his hair spilled over his shoulders, head down towards the pillows, arms shaking with the effort of the position. Or the effort of gripping so tightly, so tightly to the sheets. 

His hand slips off Billy’s ass, reaching down to grasp his fingers, his body following the line to bend himself over Billy’s back. Letting his face lean between his shoulder blades so they move completely as one. Billy’s grip on the sheet opens, opens just enough to let Steve wrap his fingers between them and hold on. Pulsing through his core, from his fingertips, up his arms and through his belly, straight to his cock between Billy’s thighs as he feels the sweet release of Billy’s orgasm spurting against his grip. 

It’s white noise of rushing blood in his head and pulsing orgasm in his belly and his hand. It’s the points of contact between them, but not enough, the places they’ve become stuck together by a fine mist of sweat. It’s not enough. 

Steve’s face turns, pressing kisses against Billy’s back, his fingers release Billy’s and slide through his hair, pushing it away from his face to find his jaw, directing his head to turn. Free hand sliding up the divots of his abs, his chest, landing palm down in his scar and pushing back against him. Pushing until he pushes back, against Steve’s chest, angling them both to their knees. 

He dips into Billy’s mouth, still partly open, mostly panting with dry lips that he traces with his tongue before slipping it between them. Billy’s meeting him, still tasting of toothpaste with the underlying cigarettes and Billy that Steve’s come to crave more than anything he’s ever had on his tongue before.

He pulls away from the lips he never wants to leave, just so he can get his bearing and direct them both to lying down. Hauling Billy along with him, drawing him near and kissing lazy and half-asleep against his mouth. 

“Damn, didn’t know you had it in you King Steve,” he can feel the quirked smile against his lips when he draws away just enough to taunt.

“Don’t get to be a king by being a push-over,” his hand slips through curls, tilting Billy’s head back to look at his face. Flushed pink, lips tortured with kisses, eyes glazed over. He wonders if it’s now, if now’s the time to figure this out, to figure out how they’re supposed to go from here. Not just sexually, but as a team. As a couple. How they’ll fit together into the future, what the future will look like. He supposes he can’t just live off his dad’s credit card for the rest of his life.

Billy blinks, he watches his lashes shudder against his cheekbones and every worry that was starting to push towards the surface just disappears. Tipping his face towards him with the press of his thumb against his chin, the soft pressure of his lips against Steve’s is a flood of everything, every single thing possible. It feels infinite here. Here in this bed. With Billy in his arms, against his chest, and pressing into his lips. The perfect weight of him, and his trust. The breathtaking openness he’s offering and Steve will take, he’ll take it and keep it safe. 

———————

He wakes in the scent of Billy’s hair, and beyond that is bacon. The smell of bacon frying. Hearing himself groan, “bacon,” towards the ceiling where the late morning light is dancing rays of warmth on white plaster.

“Mornin’ to you too sunshine,” Billy grunts, a burst of air and sound waves across his bare chest.

He tries to hide the shudder by stretching, but he’s pretty sure he fails judging by Billy’s amused snort as he drags himself to the edge of the bed, leaving Steve’s skin empty of contact and longing for it to come back. But bacon. There is bacon cooking in the kitchen and his stomach is rumbling out it’s call to food.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I might have to write a fic with the title of this chapter. It has so many places it could go.


	27. Fingertips Of Darkness

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Billy

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There's some Upside Down stuff in here. And Billy is going to use some words.

Fingertips Of Darkness

All the things to say on a dying day. 

Billy props himself on his elbow, looking down at Steve’s sleeping face. Slack and open. Soft. The way the dawning light of day flows over him so effortlessly. 

His hand is warm. Still resting against Billy’s hip. 

He shudders when his skin recalls the press of him against his back. The feel of the sheets under his knees, grasped in his hands until Steve slid his fingers through, strength in his grip that Billy’s never known before.

He wonders if the world is truly round. If there’s no beginning and no end. Then why does it feel like it all begins and ends with Steve. With the way he looked at Billy in the lights of the club. With the way he touches him. Like he’s something precious. Like his fingers can truly memorize every inch of his flesh. Like his eyes can never get their fill. With the way his body fits against Billy’s. The way it slots into place like it was something that was meant to be there all along. 

He wonders if the sky and the stars are as infinite as the deep brown hues of Steve’s eyes. If he’ll always feel so gutted and raw, like every wound and scar is on display every time those eyes rake over him. 

He watches as the morning sun’s brilliant golds start to fade into something more white. He watches every breath Steve takes while the shadows shift from morning to day. He listens to every draw of it into his lungs and through his nose. He waits until his hand has gone numb from holding his head up. His elbow stiff. He waits until Steve’s eyes move a little beneath his closed lids. Until his breath shifts. 

Then he tucks his head into his chest again. Listens to his rhythm, the beat of his heart under Billy’s ear. Lets his head swim with the tide of his breathing. Feels his exhale move Billy’s hair. His hand grip, fingers stretching and landing again on his skin. He moves with his inhale, and feels himself smile when the idiot’s first word of the day is, “bacon.”

All the things to say on a dying day. Billy’s never really been sure what words, what things he can offer on a day, on any day, a day when living is real, when life is possible, and with it not just going through the motions, not just fighting to the surface, not just dragging himself to the surface only to be kicked back down again. By his father. By his mother. By his aunt. By his uncle. By his love. By his circumstance. 

He wonders, as he feels Steve’s breath, listens to his heart. He wonders, while he’s always lived his life on the cusp of death. On the next punch. On the last scrape. With drying blood. With hardened bruises. He wonders, what it truly means now. To live. To have life in place of the fight. To have love in place of the hate. He wonders how long. How long he can have it before it’s taken away. How long it’ll stay before it decides he’s not worth it. Before it walks away. 

———————

He’s washing up in the bathroom by the time Steve climbs out of bed. He listens over the sound of the faucet as the bed squeaks his exit. And he closes his eyes to the image in the mirror. The image of hope. 

He closes his eyes and listens to Steve’s footsteps into the bathroom. Stopping near, near enough that his body heat is touching Billy’s bare back. Near enough that he’s warming the place he left his body print last night. 

He wonders if he needs to offer an invitation. Or if Steve will just take it. Before it can be given. 

There’s a sigh, and warm lips against the base of his skull, fingers folding around his pelvis, and a, “good morning. By the way,” against his flesh. Sending goosebumps tumbling across skin, racing a chill down his spine as Steve pulls away to make his way over to the toilet with a groan. 

————————

The hallway feels thick. It tingles in Billys’ fingertips and his scar aches with a desire to run. To grab Steve’s hand and run. His legs feel like rubber, his mouth tastes like ash. Steve halts in front of him. His hand darting out to grip Billy’s arm, he takes a step back, back towards the room, for the bat that’s leaning against the bed. His head turns, mouth opens, but Billy’s head is rushing with blood and his mind is whirring with darkness. His mouth has gone dry, eyes blurring as they land on a black slug. Oozing a trail of sludge down the hallway towards them.

Steve’s hand shakes his arm, his mouth opens again, but his voice doesn’t crack through the mess in Billy’s head. He’s gone, just like that, a whir of limbs and hair. 

Billy takes a step, slow and measured. Towards the thing that’s coming towards him. The colors of day are shifting. Becoming shadows where there used to be light. Fingertips of darkness reaching down the hall. 

“I thought it was over,” he hears himself say. His voice cracking. Hands shaking before he can fist them and prepare to fight his way out of this. 

He’s shoved aside by Steve’s shoulder, a sound exiting his lips that he can’t identify as Steve pushes past him. Bat in hand. He watches his shoulders, his waist twisting with the swing. Before he can make contact, the slug explodes, splattering the wall with red and black juices. The fingertips of darkness receding, light overtaking.

Clarissa is standing at the end of the hallway, a trickle of blood on her upper lip. She wipes it off with a knuckle, nods at Steve. 

“Oh come on, I totally had it covered,” he sighs, propping the bat on his shoulder.

“Too slow,” she smirks, jerks her head towards the kitchen, “breakfast is getting cold.”

Steve’s next sigh draws Billy’s eyes to his face where he’s turned to watch him, “you okay?”

“Yeah,” it’s automatic. Not a question anyone asks him on a regular basis, but the reaction to be strong, to be fine, to be just fucking okay is immediate.

Steve sees right through it, his eyes narrowing as they linger on Billy’s. Like he can read everything Billy won’t say by simply watching him. He jerks a nod at him, but it’s too robotic to be believed.

Steve’s hand is extended in the space between them, his face uncertain, but his tone clear, “come here.”

His arms rise, cross over his chest. Defiant, his usual mode. Chewing on his lip until he tastes blood. Head still rushing, core trembling. Two things he’d rather keep hidden. 

“Fine,” Steve leans the bat against the wall, takes the three steps over and wraps Billy’s body in his arms, “I'll come there,” he admits against his hair, “and we’ll figure this out,” he promises.

“Yeah? How many times?” keeping his arms close to his chest, between the two of them, “how many times we gonna have to figure this out? Huh?”

“I don’t know,” turning his head, burrowing into Billy’s neck, “we’ve got your mom this time. And Clarissa. And if we tell them, talk to them about, you know,” his breath is warm on Billy’s neck, he nearly wants to give in, untangle his arms and instead fold them around Steve while he’s offering, “tell them about last time,” he clarifies, unable to say it straight, “and maybe there’s like a power combining, team effort, um, I don’t know, three telekinetics are better than one?”

Billy snorts a response at him, but he only takes it as in invitation to pull him tighter, and press his lips flat against his pulse point. 

“You’re not getting out of this without hugging me back, so you might as well just do it and get it over with Hargrove.”

Steve’s just going to sit out there and chink away at Billy’s armor no matter what he does. Toppling the walls he puts up around himself. Against every screaming instinct in his head to keep himself hidden, he loosens his folded arms, sliding hands over Steve’s waist, finding the center of his back and flattening his palms. He takes a deep breath of him, lets it waft around every corridor of his mind, chasing darkness away like fallen leaves littering an empty walkway. 

“It’s just not that bad is it?” he can hear the smile in Steve’s voice. So he pushes him away on principal. Not that it does anything to erase the smile on his face as he squeezes Billy’s ass and turns towards the kitchen with a whistle. 

————————

It’s the boy standing at the stove, flipping bacon. The boy that Billy can’t stand to look at for long. Afraid of what he’ll see. He’ll see himself. He’ll see a version of himself. One without Neil. One without abandonment. One with his mother. He’ll see a kid who hasn’t a care in the world. Who grew up bing who he is. Knowing who he is and what he’s worth. That he’s worth something. That he’s worth the whole world to the woman who raised him. That he’s worth pride from the man who raised him. That he’s worth adoration from the girl who grows in his shadow. 

He’ll see a version of himself. And he hates him for it.

————————

She’s watching him as Steve is talking. As he’s telling her about the Demo-Dogs and the Demogorgon and the Spider Monster. She’s watching Billy as Steve is talking about the Mind Flayer. And the Lake. As he’s talking about the Upside Down. She’s watching Billy. 

The lull in the speaking is what makes his eyes rise to meet hers. Finally. He’s not sure what he sees there, but he’s sure he doesn’t like it. It’s gone as quickly as a breath and her expression shifts, “I’ve seen these things,” she admits, “not for a long time. But the slugs, we saw the first one about a month ago. Clarissa and I, we were, practicing you could say. Knowing there would be a day. And she as well as myself would have to be ready.”

Gaze shifting to Steve when his mother stops talking, he’s watching Billy, his hand sliding over his thigh under the table and resting at his knee.

It’s the contact of Steve’s hand that forces words from Billy’s chest, words he didn’t think he’d speak. Words that taste like glue and feel like cement but they need to be spoken. His eyes land on hers, on the ones he’ll always remember even when he tries to forget, “I want to hate you,” he lets it linger there, in the air between them. Form themselves in smoke and twist along the desert breeze, hot as hell, float over the table between them and land on her ears. Snake their way around her lobes before they access her head and her face falls.

“I know,” she admits.

“I want to be mad at you. I want to show you. I want to tell you. I want you to know every line. Every lick of his belt. I want you to know every bruise. Shaped like his fist. Or his boot. I want you to piss blood for days. And I want you to cry yourself to sleep every night for a year. Maybe two. I want you to hide when you hear him coming down the hall. I want you to stop hiding because hiding never stopped him anyway. I want you to lose a tooth on his knuckle. I want you to hear him call you,” his voice chokes off. Hand rising to quickly swipe away tears that he refuses to let fall, “faggot. Disgraceful. Disgusting. Sinner. Abomination. I want you to be ashamed of who you are because he made you that way,” his lip trembles, he bites down on it. Hard. Hard enough for metal to fill his mouth. He feels Steve’s hand clamp down, urging him to keep going, filling him with the strength to keep pushing. To keep talking. To get it all out. And move on, “but I don’t think it would help. Because maybe he did that already. To you. Maybe you have them too. Maybe you have the invisible marks. The ones that won’t bleed. The ones that won’t scar. And maybe I don’t want to talk about them. Maybe they’re the ones that hurt the most. And maybe they’re the ones that I’ll always hold you responsible for,” his mouth twists, the tears aren’t worth fighting with anymore. 

He can feel his hand slide down Steve’s arm, his hand turning on his knee, offering his palm. Billy takes it, tangles his fingers there, and keeps them. Squeezes so tight he’s certain it hurts, holds so tight he’s certain it’s too tight. But Steve doesn’t pull away. He just squeezes back. 

When he blinks furiously enough, he can see her. He can see her reflection of his own eyes. He can see her. And she doesn’t look shocked, she doesn’t look afraid. She doesn’t look angry. She just looks like she understands. And that stabs harder than that fucking stupid Spider Monster’s tentacle did.

All the things buried. All the things buried so deep. Coming back now to block out the sun. His head drops and he’s afraid that when he lifts it again, he’ll be alone in a smoldering pile of ash. It’ll coat his skin and his throat. It’ll burn him from the inside out. 

All those dark things creating shadows over the sun. Blocking out the heat of the desert. And smudging like coal across Steve’s skin in every place that it’s ever touched Billy’s. 

“I’m sorry,” he hears her whisper. Not the first time. Not the last. 

A sob rips itself from his chest and Steve’s arms are there. Tangling around him, somehow managing to wrap his body up without losing his grip on his hand. They’re twisted between them, right over Billy’s heart he can feel Steve’s knuckles. Knuckles that he should be happy to bruise with, to split across Billy’s face, to pound into his skin until he’s nothing but broken bones and aching flesh. But he doesn’t. 

“I’m sorry for hitting you,” he hears himself choke out against Steve’s shoulder. 

“Me too,” Steve responds immediately, his lips pressing against Billy’s temple.

Vaguely hearing the sound of a chair being pushed away from the table. She’s leaving. And he’s not sure if it’s to give them some privacy or if she hates him too. If she hates what he is. What he’s so eagerly displaying in front of her. 

Through the rushing in his head, he hears her footsteps. Coming up behind him. He feels her hand, stroking through his hair. A hand that’ll always calm him and anger him at the same time. He remembers when it was only calm, it was only comfort. And he knows it’ll never be that again. They’ll never have that again. 

She only does it once. From the crown of his head. Her fingers landing on his shoulder, the only space that’s free of Steve’s body cloaking him. They squeeze delicately, delicate like the line of their future laid out before them. Delicate like the bond that they still have left. The one Billy can’t ever break. No matter how badly he wants to.


	28. Tell Me Something I Don't Know

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Steve

Tell Me Something I Don’t Know

Steve doesn’t adjust his body around Billy’s, watching as Christine’s feet retreat towards the house. The door opens and she disappears through it.

A deep breath through his nose, slipping a hand down his back and wishing he had knocked the chairs out of the way, so he’d have full-body hugging happening instead. 

He swallows the ball that’s building in his throat, “I’m, um, going to tell you something that I think you should hear. And it’s, not, like, a pity thing or just saying it to make you feel better or something. I just think you should hear it. And you don’t have to return it. But, um,” hell, the world has broken and Billy is still lodged firmly in every corridor of Steve’s brain, and he’s wrapped tightly in his arms and Steve can’t think of a better place to be, “I, um, I love you,” the words come out strong, but the following breath shudders. Heart lodging itself in his throat, making it impossible to speak. Blood rushing in his ears, thinking now that he’s heard it come out of his mouth that it’s probably the dumbest thing he could ever have said. Shit, “you don’t have to, you know, it’s not even, you don’t even have to like me. Or anything. It’s fine, I just…”

“You’re a fucking idiot Harrington,” his voice is gruff, hand forcing it’s way between them to wipe off his cheeks.

“Yeah, well, tell me something I don’t know.”

His face is suddenly there, right in front of Steve’s. Eyes glittering with tears, no different than the surface of the ocean at night, tossing moonlight around like jewels in a case, “okay I will tell you something you don’t know. I love you too.”

“What?” it barely whispers its way past the fluttering in his chest that’s invading his throat and mouth, making his eyes blur.

He nods. It’s not accompanied with his usual cocky smirk, it’s just there. And open. His expressions soft, and honest.

“Holy shit.”

“If you don’t kiss me, in three seconds I’m gonna punch that idiotic look off your face.”

“That’s a really hard bargain you drive there,” he can feel his face twist into a smile from whatever the idiotic look that was on it, a half laugh escapes him and caresses Billy’s tear-salted lips as he closes the minuscule distance between them.

———————

It feels like years pass between morning and night. Night when they get to crawl back into bed. Exhausted and nervous. All the things they’ve talked about today still running rampant in their minds. All the details they have about the Upside Down, and everything that Billy spilled out towards his mother. It’s all winding and twisting and piling up like honking cars on the LA interstate. 

Steve can feel it just as heavy in the air around Billy as it’s been all day. He hesitates, standing at the side of the bed, watching Steve quietly for a long moment. After all this, he still thinks Steve is going to reject him. What a doofus.

“Come on,” his hand falls to pat the bed next to him. He wants to tell him that he’s seen all the parts, he’s seen every part that no one else gets to see and he knows he can leave whenever he wants, but he knows he’s going to stay. There’s no worry in his mind, aside from the Upside Down and the slugs and the Demo-Dogs, and the Mind Flayer and everything it has to offer. Well, sure seems like there are a lot of worries when he thinks about it. But when he doesn’t think about it, and that’s key to survival after all, then he has no worries. Not about Billy anyway.

His eyes flit over the length of the bed, land on Steve’s face while his body moves. Taking the last few steps to sink into the sheets. He’s wondering if the reluctance has anything to do with thinking Steve has some kind of expectation of him, of sex or something, that Billy doesn’t feel like giving. 

It was kind of a hard day. Steve will never pretend to know what it’s like to have his own father hit him. He’ll never pretend to know what it’s like to have his own mother abandon him entirely. But he can understand that Billy is emotionally exhausted. Steve might be dumb, but he’s not that dumb. So he’s not expecting any kind of sex. 

“Is it too hot in here to touch you?”

“Touch me?” 

“Hold you sounds stupid. And you’d tease me if I asked to hold you. But your skin is always cool to the touch. And it’s hot in here. So I want to feel your cool skin against my overheated skin.”

“You’re…”

“An idiot. Yes. I know. But…”

“You’re allowed to touch me whenever you want.”

“Oh. Well, yeah, but not really. I mean, okay,” sliding one arm under Billy’s pillow, the other over his shoulder to rest a palm flat on his chest, “that’s not really true, though, you know,” jamming a knee up against the back of Billy’s, “that I can touch you whenever I want. I think you still need to want me to touch you.”

“Don’t do that shit Harrington.”

“What shit?”

“Act like I’m breakable or some shit, just ‘cause you know now what Neil,” his voice trails off, clearing his throat, “I’m not breakable.”

“Yeah, okay. Well, you looked pretty broken for about a year there, but I didn’t treat you like it, did I? Why would this be any different? I know you’re strong, I’m not questioning that, I just want to respect your boundaries.”

“I don’t have any boundaries.”

And that stabs right into Steve’s gut. Maybe it was something he knew about Billy, maybe it was obvious all along. The way he treats himself, the scars he’s only added to the mural of things that have been put there without his permission. The stuff that goes on in his head that would make him think he deserves that, he deserves to treat himself poorly because everyone in his life always has. That he can give himself pain because it’s the only love he’s ever known.

“Maybe you should have boundaries,” his hand under the pillow shifts, sliding over it to find Billy’s chin, giving him the nudge to look his way. Steve’s been a shitty boyfriend before. A shitty person too. And he’s not good at learning from books, but one thing he is good at learning from, is experience. Past mistakes that make for a better future if he’s willing to acknowledge them and work on fixing them instead of pretending that the way he treated Nancy was just fine. He’s not going to make those mistakes with Billy. Even if Billy can’t respect himself, then Steve will show him what it feels like to be respected, “think about it,” he presses his lips against Billy’s gently, “and we’ll talk about it. Whenever you want,” pressing again, lightly. Removing his hand from his chin, allowing him to settle his head wherever he wants to put it while his hand slides back down to his chest. Holding him against that scar, against the wound that almost took him away from Steve before they ever even got a chance. 

Billy’s head turns, leaving the entirety of his mane right in front of Steve’s face. Allowing himself to be enveloped in the feel of Billy’s body against his, the loops and swirls of his golden curls. Tracing them like a maze around his head, maybe it’s a lot like the path they’ve taken to get where they are. 

“Okay,” Billy finally agrees. The last bits of rigidity in his muscles melting away beneath Steve’s hands when he sighs.

“Good,” responding lightly, watching his exhale stir the hair in front of his mouth before he leans in, burying his face in it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'll tell you friends something you don't know - I still don't know how I want to wrap this up. I think by the next time I post, we'll be in the homestretch. Maybe another handful of chapters and a nice little epilogue to tie it all up in a bow?
> 
> Definitely keep commenting, it makes my day :)


	29. A Promise Of Returning

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Billy

A Promise Of Returning

“This is boring,” Steve sighs, stopping in his pacing route. Back and forth, back and forth. With the spiked bat leaning against his shoulder.

“Yeah?” Billy feels an eyebrow rise with his question, digging around in his pocket for a smoke.

“Yeah. I mean, not that I want the Mind Flayer to come bursting out of your mom’s root cellar or whatever, but it’s just lame when you can’t see anything that’s happening.”

Billy shrugs, letting his eyes scan over the backyard of his mother’s house. The door to the root cellar locked from the inside, which is damn stupid as far as Billy can tell. It’s just the two of them, Mom and Clarissa, in there. Using their mind powers to contact El. And he s’poses from there, it’s off to the gate to the Upside Down. Or portal. Or some shit. Billy has no idea, he was possessed then dead last time this shit was dealt with. 

Tugging on his bottom lip with his free hand when he releases the smoke from his mouth, watching through the cloud as Steve starts up on his pacing again. His voice comes out weak and small, which really pisses him off, “how many people? You know, last time, with the whole…”

“Not your fault,” Steve interrupts, “and it doesn’t matter. People died. People die all the time. And it wasn’t your fault.”

“It was…”

“Not your fault,” his face is suddenly just there, right in front of Billy’s. Close enough that his exhale flits across Billy’s lips before he draws back to bring the cig back up. 

The smoke makes Steve back up again. Lingering close. The desert sun at his back, bringing out tones of bronze in him that the lame sun in Hawkins could never do. He looks at Billy intensely enough that Billy has to shift his gaze. It catches on his throat, watching his Adam’s Apple bob with a hard swallow.

His hand lands on Billy’s shoulder with a tight, reassuring squeeze, and one more reminder, “not your fault,” before he backs up and continues in his pacing route.

—————

It’s been hours. Of sitting and pacing. Of cigarettes and Steve’s endless dialogue. 

The boy comes out of the house from time to time, getting updates. But they have none. Billy is starting to wonder if he should burst into the cellar to see if they’re still alive when the Earth shakes. Shakes hard enough that Steve stumbles forwards, one hand landing on Billy’s chest to brace him. There’s a pulse of heavy air, pressure on his ears and his back teeth are floating in his mouth. Steve’s hand on his chest the only thing he can feel, the only thing keeping him grounded before he can find his eyes. His mouth is moving, once again, Billy can’t hear it, can only feel the pressure and the shift under his feet. 

And then it’s gone. Nothing around them disturbed by it. Not a single shift or crack in the Earth, nothing strange in the sky. 

Billy breathes, feels his hand rise to cover Steve’s on his shoulder, hears the root cellar door open and voices. 

“They’re fine,” Steve’s eyes are glossy, relief starting to pool in his features, “everyone is fine.”

Billy still doesn’t move. Feeling the weight of it all, of all the things he did, all the hurt he caused, all the pain he endured after even though it’ll never be enough. No matter how many times Steve reminds him it wasn’t his fault. It’ll never be enough. 

“It’s done,” Steve tells him now, setting the bat down, wrapping both arms around Billy. He’s warm and gentle. He’s something Billy will never deserve. And he knows that. But Steve seems pretty hell bent on staying anyway.

——————

Billy doesn’t hug his mother. Not until they’re packed up two weeks later and ready to move on. Ready to take on the open road and see what else is out there. Ready to leave with the promise of returning. A promise he intends to keep.


	30. A Round World Of Infinite Possibilities

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Steve for the final installment.

Round World Of Infinite Possibilities 

Once they get back to California, they just never leave. They spend the first few years living in various campgrounds, picking up odd jobs and doing whatever the fuck they want. They visit Christine and her family once a year, stay through the holidays. Steve never bothered making amends with his father, knowing that telling him he’s living and is romantic with another boy would only harden his resolve to never give him a job. Well, turns out, Steve doesn’t need it. 

It’s an offhand comment, something muffled around a cigarette one night in a shitty hotel in the desert, “you know, those who can’t do, teach,” Billy tells him with a cocked brow and a gesture towards the open book on the ratty table. The book that Steve has been trying to read for about three months now, one that Clarissa recommended. Steve groaned and shot him an elbow in the dark, but Billy just told him calmly, “think about it Pretty Boy.”

But Steve’s never been much of one for thinking. Which is probably why he ends up enrolling in school and gets the first job he applies for after his graduation. A day he never thought he’d see. So many setbacks and frustration. So many nights spent staying up late, pulling on his hair and fighting back tears, trying to get the words to make sense. So many study sessions ending in Billy’s chin hooked over his shoulder and his calm, rough voice reading out loud, reassuring and patient in ways no one else has ever been with Steve. 

His graduation day. Dustin and Max and half the nerd herd make the trip out to watch him walk the stage for his teaching certificate. Steve always thought his proudest moment would be winning Regionals back in high school, but it’s not. Nowhere near actually.

This is a pretty close second. Having their modest apartment in the outskirts of San Francisco packed to the brim with the nerds who are all grown up now but still just as nerdy, with Billy’s family who have become Steve’s as well, a few friends he’s made in classes, all gathered around to celebrate. At the end of the night, when everyone is filtering out, aside from the ones who are spending the night, he finds Billy on the balcony, staring out over the lights into the bay. Where the world is round and the sky is infinite. 

He slips his arms in close to Billy’s waist, linking his hands through his on the rail. Waiting until he stubs out his smoke, pressing a kiss against his neck and reminding him, “I never could have done this if not for you.”

Billy grunts, doesn’t bother denying it though, so that’s a step. 

Steve smiles, burying his face in Billy’s neck and wondering gently, “I know it’s not like a thing we can do legally or whatever, or maybe not something you even want, ever. Or like…”

“Spit it out,” Billy urges, turning his face to nudge Steve out of his hiding spot. His face in the dim glow of the balcony lights, the golden hues of him that Steve won’t ever get tired of uncovering. The lines of him that Steve knows he’ll always love tracing with his fingertips, his lips, and his tongue. 

“I wanna marry you,” he manages to get out of his mouth past the ball of nerves and fear of rejection. 

It doesn’t last long, the silence that follows, it quickly gets enveloped with Billy’s smile and a twinkle in his eye, “okay.”

“Okay?” the breath he didn’t realize he was holding gets exhaled in a gasping, “really?”

“Yeah,” he shrugs, turning in Steve’s grasp to face him, chest to chest, “can’t do it legally, so what do we do? Just keep living together and bein’ all monogamous and shit, just add rings and never get the official paper to prove it?”

“I mean, we could do a ceremony thingy. Just have your family and stuff there, and mock it up,” he grins, leaning his forehead against Billy’s, “I don’t really care. It’s us, ’til the end whether there’s paper and ceremony or not.”

“Alright beauty queen,” Billy smirks, his hand rising to slide through Steve’s hair, resting on the nape of his neck, “I’ll ask my mom and Clarissa to put something together.”

——————

Put something together, they do. And it’s easily the proudest day of Steve’s life. Even if it’ll never be recognized legally, it doesn’t matter, Billy is his husband by name, body, and soul. That’s what counts. 

In front of all their family and friends, they speak vows and they mean them. Even if there is no paper to seal it, they still mean them. And they’ll both mean them for the rest of their lives.

It’s after the ceremony that Steve finds his mother. She’s wiping away tears and looking just the same as she always has. Her hands are shaking when she raises them to touch Steve’s face, trace an index finger over his smile, “Christine got a hold of me,” her hands both linger on his shoulders, “I couldn’t miss this,” her smile is soft, gesturing towards Sophia, “neither could she,” she doesn’t bother mentioning Dad. And that’s fine, “I’m so proud of you,” she tells him when she leans in for a hug, “so proud.”

——————

It’s not exactly smooth sailing from there. It never is. But Steve falls into stride as a kindergarten teacher, Billy takes a job in a garage and gets to spend his time restoring old cars. 

Neither one of them will ever be something great in the grand scheme of things. But they can be greatly happy. And that’s all that matters.

Billy would never call himself a Gay Right’s activist, but he’s also not someone who just lets the whole movement pass him by while he sits on the sidelines. Steve, on the other hand? He’ll call himself an activist. And is damn proud of it.

Especially three decades after they first met, when the White House is lit up in rainbow colors. When he’s sitting on his couch at home, with the guy he’s called husband for over twenty years now, leaning against his chest wiping tears off his cheeks that they’ll both pretend never happened. They leapt at the opportunity to make the paperwork official when they were first allowed to get married in the State of California in ’08, even if it took another five years of trials and legal battles to recognize it officially. But this, sitting here with Billy’s golden curls that have faded to silvery grey tickling his chin, with his back against Steve’s chest and their four week old baby girl in his arms. This is what makes every battle with the Upside Down, the Rightside Up and with the world in general completely worth it. Worth every moment and every scar. Worth every nightmare and every name used like a weapon. 

It’s all right here. A round world of infinite possibilities, right here in Steve’s arms. A world he’ll never tire of living in. One he wouldn’t change for anything.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Snip, snap, snout, this tale is told out. Sorry, I know it was kind of glossed over at the end, and wrapped in a pretty bow. I could see this being a universe I'll revisit in the future, and maybe I'll see you again!
> 
> The supportive comments along the way are the only reason this thing got completed, so thank you so much for the love :)
> 
> Take care of yourselves friends, I appreciate your company more than I can say.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks friends, take care of yourselves :) Kudos and comments please.


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